Names and Saying Them

I have the horrible habit of, in my head, calling people by the name of what I think they look like instead of their actual name. For example, there could be a person named Butter, but I think they look more like a Jelly, so I’ll call them Jelly (not out loud, of course).

I’m making an effort to stop. I consciously use their actual names in my head were I to think of them. It’s in that brief moment when you first see someone when things spiral out of my control.

ARACHNID: “Hey, Butter… elly!!”

BUTTER/JELLY glares with the fire of a thousand flaming suns at ARACHNID. ARACHNID spontaneously combusts.

It’s a nightmare when you call one of your closest friends by something other than their name (that is also not an applicable nickname).

Except for a few mortifying instances, this issue thankfully doesn’t occur often because I tend to never use people’s names when I’m talking to them.

PEOPLE: Hey, Arachnid!

ARACHNID: Hi. (Note the lack of “People”)

I never really thought about not-saying-people’s-names until a few weeks ago. I can’t remember what prompted me to think about it. Possibly someone said my name and I thought, Huh. I never say that person’s name. Or maybe I was trying to get someone’s attention and my usual methods were insufficient and I had to scream their name, and it felt awkward in my mouth. When I usually try to grab someone’s attention, I put my sock on my hand, along with googly eyes that are always conveniently located in my pocket, and throw a spectacular puppet show. Sorry, just trying to get your attention, dear reader. Making sure you’re not yet bored out of your mind and simply skimming these words for any sort of emotion to break the predictable mundaneness of daily zombie living. When I usually try to grab someone’s attention, I tap their shoulders. If that fails, I’ll wave my hand obnoxiously in their face or simply give up and flop over like a deflated version of those dancing balloon people thingies outside of car washes.

On the rare occasion that I use someone’s name, I more-often-than-not stumble over it like a bunny leaping over a boulder the size of Mount Everest (I’ve lost track of that simile. OH WELL). It’s not how it looks. I know your name, I really do! Just… AHHHHH. I can pronounce words.

I think the name I stumble the most on is my own. You never really say your own name often, and with such little practice with it, I’m terrible at saying it. I can barely eke out the traditional pronunciation, and even then, I have to repeat it back to you; I can’t come up with it off the top of my head. But, as my name is my own, I get to decide how to say it, right?

Is it A-rack-nid, like a horrible hacking cough, or is it A-rah-ch-nid like that itchy rash?

The main reason I decided to go with a pseudonym (Yes, I’ll admit, it’s a pseudonym. My parents did not actually name me Arachnid Weaver. But I will deny it if you ever ask) is because the name on my birth certificate is a pain to pronounce. It’s not the worst out there, but whenever anyone asks me how to say it, I usually have to repeat it multiple times, and even then, it’s a fifty-fifty shot.

But sometimes even I don’t pronounce it right (according to the pronunciation I prefer. If we go the traditional route, I never say it right).

I was always trying to escape my name. When I was four, I asked my mom why they didn’t name me Golden Girl (I’m glad they didn’t. And, yes, four-year-old-me wanted a superhero name. She didn’t yet realize that they had secret identities. She thought Spider-Man’s parents named him “Spider-Man” as a powerless infant). When I was in kindergarten, I’d occasionally put a name other than mine on my papers (probably a pain for the teacher to sort, but at least I was consistent). When I was ten, I wanted to legally change my name for my birthday (I didn’t).

Not Human

In early elementary school, up through third or fourth grade, I’d thoroughly convinced myself that I wasn’t human. Humans were far too mundane, to unmagical for my tastes. I was absolutely certain that one day I’d wake up and my true magical potential would emerge and I wouldn’t be a lowly human anymore. I was just waiting for that day to happen and simply passing the time in my human life. My humanity was a placeholder for my true magical self.

On top of believing that I wasn’t human, I would search for magical beings everywhere. I remember intently searching for leprechauns every St. Patrick’s Day with my friends. My house had a pond in the backyard, and of course there were mermaids in the shallow pond. They were lurking under the surface, biding their time and waiting for me to sprout my tail so I could join them.

All mythical creatures weren’t created equal. Mermaid, for instance, I’d take over human any day, but it wasn’t preferential. While mermaids did have their underwater cities, I didn’t want to leave land forever. Therefore, I would be a shapeshifting mermaid so I could still come to the surface and get ice cream on the weekends.

For fairy, which was mythical creature I most wanted to be (a human-sized one, not a small one. I didn’t want to be crushed underfoot.), I imagined having wings and practiced flapping them so I’d be prepared to fly whenever they grew. I practiced folding them away and fluttering them gently when I walked. I could feel them, and I could almost see them. I was so convinced they were real that I’d even briefly considered jumping off our second floor to test them.

In third grade, I was convinced that the existence of my canine teeth indicated that I was actually a vampire or a werewolf. I couldn’t decide between the two. I managed to persuade my friends that this was true as well. It turned out they were harboring doubts about their humanity too.

When I finally came to realize that I was a mere mortal and would never sprout magic powers or wings, I turned to writing. I wrote many “novels” about mythical creatures. I wish I still had them, but most I’ve lost and some I destroyed.

In third grade, during writing time, our teacher would give us a prompt. She usually wanted us to talk about our real lives and experiences, but I decided to do my own thing and write fiction. My novel was about these three cat-fairy sisters going on a quest of some sort to save their mother. I was so excited to reach twenty pages in my composition book.

I also wrote a picture book in third grade. It was about three friends at a vampire school going on an egg hunt for solid gold eggs. It was a competition between their whole school. A race. I remember one of the eggs was stuck on the roof of the school, so they decided to blow it down. And plot twist/cliff hanger: one of the characters is actually a werewolf. *Mind blown* This was revealed by one of the eggs having a werewolf engraved on it.

Slight detour from fairy tales: In fourth grade, I wrote about a fork who was terrified of being used. It’s about how fork are superior to spoons. I hold this belief strongly to this day.

Then back to fairy tales in fifth grade, I wrote a bunch of fairy tale retellings with the villain as the misunderstood protagonist.

I also wrote a “novel” about shape-shifting mermaids. I was super excited when I hit a thousand words. *Looks at ~800 word blog post written in half-an-hour. Looks at ~1,300 word essay written for English yesterday.* This novel was written in lieu of whatever assignment we had in the computer lab. It was also my first typed story. I deleted it after it devolved into overpowered characters, no real plot, and shell phones. I wish I hadn’t.

In sixth and seventh grade, I diverged from fantasy and wrote my first dystopian, which I didn’t finish. It was about a terrible war that destroyed human life. The main character was Annie, a normal citizen who struggled to make ends meet, whose parents just laid hopelessly in bed all day watching a blank TV, and only ate peanut butter & jelly sandwiches (except the bread was secretly cardboard). The other main character was Nikki, who was a privileged girl not really even aware of the war with an aloof, uncaring father. Plot twist: the father started the whole war. Annie and Nikki would band together to stop her father, but at the end, when it really counted, Nikki would choose her father over Annie and the war would continue. The end.

“Where Babies Come From” According to Mini Arachnid

Before my brother was born, I thought that babies were things that people just had or didn’t have. Like hair.

I guess I just never stopped to consider, hey, where did this baby come from? just like I never stopped to consider, hey, where did this couch come from?

When my mom was pregnant with my brother, my parents told me that this future person was inside my mother. *Explosions of insanity* Like, did she eat him? Is that ethically correct? I don’t think I fully comprehended this until she gave birth, though.

I remember the day before my brother was due, my mother was basically a hot air balloon. If the baby is that big, then how does it even get out?

So I asked my mother, “How does the baby get out?”

And my mother and my cousin shared this look and neither of them answered. So I started guessing. “Does it come out of your mouth? That’d be so uncomfortable. Would you be able to breathe? Does it come out of your butt? Is poop a baby?”

At this point, to stop me from going any further, my mom said, “They’re going to cut it out of my stomach.”

This, obviously, horrified me. I imagined some evil cartoonish surgeon taking a huge, rusty knife to my mother and then stitching her back up like a zombie.

I mean, this was kinda true because she had a c-section.

So then four-year-old me kept thinking. Because that’s healthy. What triggers a pregnancy? I decided that it happens spontaneously. Like you’re just eating breakfast one day and bam you’re pregnant and you instantly become a human blimp. But then what’s stopping my mom from having another kid? I was not happy with the first one; a second would be a nightmare.

Little Arachnid: “Mom, what’s stopping you from getting pregnant again?”

Arachnid’s Mom: They gave me an injection so I won’t have any more kids.

Well, okay. Good enough for now.

Until people started asking if Scorpion got his nose from his dad and his eyes from his mom. I understood how Scorpion would get his eyes from his mom because I mean, he was inside her. But how would he get anything from his dad? My dad wasn’t pregnant. Maybe it’s from kissing. Like, in all that icky salival exchange noses are transferred to babies. But no. Then they wouldn’t have actors kissing each other on Good Luck, Charlie because then they’d all have kids! It’s all probably transferred through the air. Because after they get married, the dad and the mom live together, so then air particles are transferred and that’s where Scorpion gets his nose.

 

This explanation worked for me for years until we got back from a baby shower and I started thinking again.

If babies have to be surgically removed from their mothers, what did cavemen and dolphins do? Because they don’t have hospitals.

Babies must come out of their mother’s belly buttons! What else would belly buttons be used for? Right? Right?

I Never Learned About Stranger Danger

Most children are taught at a young age about ‘Stranger Danger’. It’s the time when their expectations for a perfect world full of good people are dashed, and to add salt to an already-burning wound, their childhood is crushed like a fresh leaf underfoot.

Their wonderous, big-eyed, childish glow is muted by the fact that not everyone loves you. That not everyone holds your wants and needs and safety close to their hearts. That not everyone will hold your hand when you cross the street.

It’s when you start to look around at the world and you see kidnappers and murderers and thieves and rapists lurking behind every innocuous and smiling face. When you stop talking to strangers and making friends outside of your comfort zone. When you cling to your parents, your courage crushed and your fears multiplied ten-fold.

But, of course, there are always exceptions. Children who choose to believe in humanity. Children who believe that nothing bad can happen, no skinned knees or scraped wrists, as long as they don’t cheat on their next vocabulary test. Oh, they’re aware, of course, of strange men in white vans giving free candy to children. But stuff like that is the work of fiction, or it happens to faraway people. Never at home. Never to good children like you.

These children know that danger exists. But they won’t recognize it when it tries to hide.

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My parents attempted, like most other parents, to teach me about stranger danger and the faults of the world. But I did not believe them. Why would anyone hurt me? I’m so adorable. I’m invincible!

Another lesson of theirs, however, did seem to seep into my skull. They told me that if anything bad were ever to happen (they never specified, but I assumed they meant skinned knees and scraped wrists) to tell the nearest adult.

Adults are to be trusted. They are always good and they always know better.

I, as a child, believed this full-heartedly. I had experienced first-hand the cruelty of children, but without much contact with adults aside from my teachers and parents, I had no reason to disbelieve my parents’ words.

Children are so awful, how could adults be the same? I was sure they out-grew their monstrousness at some point.

Thankfully, nothing bad ever happened where I had to trust my life to some random adult. I mean, there was that time I got lost at the Target and I was mentally preparing myself to do some stranger-talking, but my parents were just one aisle over. So…

Anyway.

When I was in second-grade, I was visiting family in Bangladesh. We were at my cousin’s house, which, as I remember it, is a single apartment building. Behind the building is a forest and in front of it is a field and the area isn’t densely populated aside from the people living in the single apartment building.

The field was absolutely packed with forget-me-nots and they would always stick to your clothing when you walked anywhere and there were tons of puddles that made an excellent jumping ground.

One day, my cousin, my brother (Scorpion), and I were playing in the field, just doing what children do. My parents and my aunt were in the house, just doing whatever it is that adults do (probably gossiping over tea). My cousin was about ten, I was seven, and Scorpion was three.

We were having an amazing time, running around and splashing in puddles, the air humid and hanging heavily, plastering sweat to our faces, when a random man on a motorcycle appeared on the road in front of the apartment.

He was wearing a black jacket and dark pants and we’d never seen him before. He asked us if we wanted a ride on his motorcycle. But he could only take two of us. His motorcycle wasn’t large enough for all three.

My cousin, Scorpion, and I quickly discussed who should go. All three of us wanted to go, obviously, but we had to decide who would be left behind.

One of my uncles has a motorcycle, too, but he rarely let us go on rides with him because he thinks it’s dangerous. But motorcycles aren’t dangerous. They’re fun. And how could something so harmless hurt?

Eventually, we decided that Scorpion and I would go since my cousin lived in Bangladesh and would occasionally get a ride from my uncle. But Scorpian and I lived in the States and a motorcycle was novel for us. Straight out of a comic book.

We asked my cousin to tell our parents where we had gone.

We were so very considerate and cared so very much for our safety…

Scorpion and I climbed onto the motorcycle, seated in front of the mystery driver, all laughter and giggles. How lucky we were for a benefactor to magically arrive and whisk us away for fun without warning.

The ride was exhilarating. I could feel the wind combing its fingers through my hair and I could smell the damp earth as the motorcycle ate it away.

But the ride continued for longer than I had expected. We were bordering on fifteen minutes. The wind turned cold and the earth turned sour. I realized how fast we were going. How much distance we had covered.

I realized I didn’t know this man’s name.

My brother was still laughing.

I started to fidget. I asked, “Can we go home now? I’m getting tired.”

The man didn’t look at me. His dark eyes were glued to the road. “Don’t you want to ride a bit longer? It’s so much fun.”

Scorpion replied, “Yeah! Let’s keep going.”

I am starting to panic, but I keep a blank face for my brother. I hold him closer.

My cousin had told me stories of infants stolen in the night. Their organs cut out and sold. I’d seen the blind men without eyes on their faces, nothing but empty sockets. I thought that she had been trying to scare me. She’d told me of little girls and boys taken and never returned. Their families grieve, but they move on with time. The little girls and boys tortured for more, more, more.

The anxiety in my stomach grows, building into a monster, clawing at me and scraping away at all self-control. I can feel the pieces flake off onto the road and they are run over by the motorcycle’s wheels, torn up by the wind, and left in the ground far behind me in a moment’s time.

I breathe in. I breathe out.

Faster, faster.

But then, I see it.

The field with the forget-me-nots and the puddles where children play.

The man slows and stops. He helps my brother down and then me.

My family is waiting, my cousin in the front.

---

This story is the inspiration for my short story, A Dreamer in The Darkness. Getting on that motorcycle was a really stupid idea. I was in a strange country so far away from home. I couldn’t read in the language and I could barely speak it. So many things could’ve gone wrong, but luckily, they didn’t.

Sam, the main character of A Dreamer in The Darkness, is based on me as a child. His story is what could’ve happened.

Third Grade Mishaps (Blood Included)

Third grade, like all other grades, is a horrible year. The pressure begins to ramp up, you’re homework gets due dates, drama, etc.

I did lots of stupid things in third grade, such as color my teeth blue with a ballpoint pen; color my entire hand blue with a ballpoint pen; lock myself in my room for hours at a time without food, water, or bathroom breaks to watch ICarly; contract the stomach flu; throw up in the hallway and walk into a random classroom with vomit all over my hands and face; throw up in the hallway again; write a short story about vampires; etc. The list could go on for ages.

But today we’re going to talk about a particular story that took place in third grade.

Like every other mostly sane person, I am in an ongoing war with mosquitos. Mosquitos are horrible (they’re important to the ecosystem but horrible to people). They are horrible and don’t you dare disagree. They suck your blood like greedy vampires and leave itching bumps that swell to the size of plastic Easter eggs.

Mosquitos, on the other hand, love me. They leave everyone else alone and make a feast of me.

Everyone always tells you never to scratch mosquito bites, but I’ve never been one to listen to everyone. But in this case, at least, I should have.

I got a mosquito bite on my left forearm and it swelled to a respectable size. And I itched it. I itched it until it bled.

(Mosquitos are one of the reasons that I despise spring.)

But, thanks to magic and a Band-Aid, the bloody wound eventually scabbed over.

(This post’s about to get somewhat gross. Squeamish readers, click off now.)

Another activity that I participated in as a naive child was the picking of scabs. *Shudders* Don’t worry, dear readers, I don’t do this anymore.

The scab was about a half-inch long (“How do I know this?” you ask. I still have a scar) and it covered a half-inch long wound. (I’m going to call it a wound. It makes the story more dramatic.)

During class, I did the inevitable and picked off the scab.

But, of course, it started bleeding profusely. (What else did I expect?)

So here I am, blood gushing from an open wound, my right hand clapped over it to try and stanch the flow, and my teacher, under the premise that nothing was wrong, merrily teaching away.

Thankfully, a few minutes later, she gave us time to work. I went up to ask the teacher for a Band-Aid, but there was another girl in front of me. I waited patiently behind her, still bleeding.

She needed a Band-Aid as well. For her papercut.

The nightmare then began.

Me: Uh, I need a Band-Aid, too.

Teacher: I’m sorry. We’re out of Band-Aids. Is it an emergency?

Girl: That’s fine. I don’t really need one.

Me: … Yeah. I guess it can wait.

It could not wait. It definitely could not wait.

Soon afterward, the teacher began to teach again. (It is her job, after all.)

And I’m still sitting there. Bleeding profusely.

I lifted my right hand to check if it had stopped bleeding. Nope. And my right hand was coated with blood.

At that point, a classmate, let’s call him Earl Omega, looked right at me. I held eye contact and glared at him with the full force of the laser-firing armada located behind my eyeballs.

I can’t remember what happened afterward because third grade was so long ago.

And now we’ll never know if Little Arachnid ever got that Band-Aid or not.

A Dreamer in the Darkness: Part 3 (Short Story)

Part 1

Part 2

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I’m curled up on the cold, cement floor of a small, windowless room in the basement. After Blue left, Shabby pulled me inside, his grip even tighter than Blue’s, and shut the door. I tried to memorize the stars. It felt like the last time I’d see the sky. He didn’t talk to me at all, he just shoved me in this little room and left. I didn’t get any food and my stomach is growling.

I have nightmares when I finally fall into the darkness that has been tugging on me, tearing me to shreds.

 

Three days have passed, and I’ve started to fall into a routine. Twice a day, I’m given bowls of cold oatmeal that slide down my throat like an eel. It’s always slipped in through a panel on the door. The food is disgusting, but I still eat it. Every other time I’m given food, I make a nick on my sword with a rusty nail I found to keep track of the days that have passed. There’s a small bathroom attached to this room where I bathe and get my water. My sword is always clutched tightly in my hand.

No one has come to rescue me. I burst into tears quite often. Obviously, I’m upset I’m still here, but I’m more upset that I didn’t tell Mother and Father that I love them before they left. I can’t help but think that was goodbye forever and I did it wrong.

Once, a long time ago, Mother told me, “Don’t ever get into a stranger’s car.” I forgot and I’m cursing myself.

 

It’s my birthday today. I’m finally actually six. My sword tells me three months have passed. I cannot remember the color of Father’s eyes or the smell of Mother’s hair, but my tears have dried up. There’s nothing left. I’m having trouble sleeping. Whatever brief moments of rest I do manage to capture are plagued by dreams of dark shapes that try to steal me away and rip me apart as Mother and Father watch. There are tears, but nothing can be done.

 

I’ve been staring at the wall for a few minutes, or possibly a couple hours, when I hear the door open. The sound claws at my ears until they bleed scarlet and I drown in my moon-warmed blood.

I don’t turn around, so Shabby walks across the room until he’s in front of the wall. I haven’t seen another human in around 94 days. Shabby doesn’t quite fit his name anymore. He’s in much better hygiene. He’s taken a shower and cut his hair and shaved and his teeth are still white and straight. He’s wearing new clothing.

He smiles at me in a way that tells me I’ve just seen evil’s face. It’s so much worse than poisoned candy. He’s hiding something behind his back and won’t let me see it. I don’t think I want to.

“I’ve drained all the ransom money I could from your dear parents, so you’re of no use to me anymore,” he sneers. He sees a treasure to take when he looks at me. I shiver.

He steps forward and his smile is scary and I don’t know what he’s got behind his back and I’m scared. I scream and swing my sword.

My left-hand shudders as the sword hits his head and he stumbles, tripping over a crate, and he falls and groans. What was in his hand has fallen and it’s a gun.

I freeze, but I have to act now, before he can hurt me. I run forward, fast enough that you cannot see anything of me but my essence, and I grab the keys to my dungeon from a hook on Shabby’s pocket. He lunges at me, but he’s disoriented and I’m fast and I skitter out of his way, but I stumble and fall to the cold stone floor. I scramble up and hurry to the thick door trapping me here, away from the moon, and shove the key into the hole and dart outside and slam the door shut behind me, locking Shabby inside. I can feel the vibrations through the door as he bangs on it.

I run up the stairs to the main floor and I make it as far as the porch when my knees give up and the tears come. They don’t stop until water fills my lungs and steals all my air, but Mother isn’t here and Shabby’s in the basement and I have to get far away. I clutch my sword and I dry my tears on my dirty sleeve and I march on.

The house isn’t in the middle of nowhere. It’s in a tiny neighborhood and there are street lights and other signs of life. Really, the house looks like every other house here, even though it’s actually a prison.

I’ve been walking for awhile when I see another person at a street corner, and I quicken my pace despite my dying muscles. As I approach the man on the corner, I slow down. Can I trust him? But then I see he’s wearing a uniform and he has a sirencar next to him. He’s an officer. Mother says that I can trust officers above all other adults. They don’t count as strangers. I’m still wary. I’ve learned my lesson.

I tap his elbow and he glances down at me and stares.

“I’ve just run away from a dungeon,” I tell him, pointing at the direction from which I’ve come. “There’s a man who stole me and he tried to hurt me with a gun.”

He blinks three more times then says in an awed voice, “You’re Sam Warner. Everyone thought you were dead.” But I am clearly alive.

 

The officer said something into his walkie-talkie and more officers came. They asked me to tell them what the house and Shabby and Blue looked like. Now, I’m in the backseat of a sirencar with a dark-haired officer lady. She says she’s going to bring me to my parents.

***

Mother, Father, and I sit by the fireplace and we watch the snowflakes drift outside like puffy miniature clouds. I sip my hot chocolate, burning my tongue. I love it anyway.

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© ARACHNID WEAVER 2018

A Dreamer in the Darkness: Part 2 (Short Story)

Part 1

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I stare at him. My mind has gone blank. Mother and Father are so strong. Who could hurt them? There’s urgency in his eyes. He keeps glancing around my house and then back outside. I can tell he’s in a hurry to get going. He’s an adult. I can trust adults, so he must be telling the truth, and my parents are in danger. I still haven’t grasped this impossible possibility.

“I’ll be a moment,” I say. “I need to grab something to help.” He gestures for me to be quick.

I run upstairs and rummage through my toy chest, scattering my things throughout my room. I find what I need and tug it out. It’s a wooden sword Father made last summer after he read The Three Musketeers to me.

As I’m walking down the sweeping staircase, I notice the man reaching toward the oil painting on the wall. I slow down for a moment, but I shake away any doubts. He’s an adult, and adults always do what’s right.

Father says I walk like a cat, my steps near-silent, but now I stomp down the rest of the stairs. The man is startled, but he quickly collects himself. He clears his throat and says, “Shall we go, Sam?” For a fleeting moment, I wonder how he knows my name. I tell myself it’s nothing.

 

His car is a couple houses down from mine. He could’ve parked it closer; it’s not as if we have guests over in the middle of the night. The man’s car is a rusty truck with two rows of seats. It looks like his clothing: old and well-used.

The man opens the back door and motions for me to get inside. I stare at him. He looks at me like I’m insane and asks, scowling slightly, “What?” He’s getting more hurried. I can tell by the way his brow is furrowed. He keeps glancing left and right.

“There’s no car seat,” I say.

“Car seats aren’t important,” he replies. I disagree, but I’m not supposed to talk back. I get into the car, but without a car seat, I can’t see out the window. It’s too high up.

We drive for twenty minutes and it seems like the man, who I’ve decided to call Blue for his clothing, is trying to hit every pothole in the road. Each bump and break is jarring and I slam against the seat belt. I shove my sword inside my jacket to protect it from the rough ride.

When we finally stop, Blue opens the car door and my eyes trace up the long gravel drive to a ghostly house in the midst of nothing. The vinyl is a putrid shade of gray, like a graveyard’s tears. I look at Blue, bewildered, and say, “This isn’t the restaurant.” My parents had taken me there with them before. It was nice with flickering candles and a sweet smell, although I never found out what the scent was.

Blue ignores me and grabs my forearm. He’s hurting me, but I fail to wriggle from his grasp. I have to half-run to keep up with Blue’s long strides as he leads me up the long gravel drive.

 

I stumble on the porch steps, but Blue yanks me forward. He pounds on the door, so hard I’m surprised his fist doesn’t go through the frail wood. When no one answers, he knocks on the door again, this time so loud that I would shield my ears if Blue weren’t holding my arm so tightly.

The door is opened by a glowering man who’s even shabbier than Blue. He’s narrow and he’s got long and scraggly hair that’s in dire need of a brush. When his grayish eyes find my face, the frown disappears and is replaced with a crooked grin. His teeth are extremely white and they clash with the rest of him. I decide to call him Shabby in my head.

Shabby is still looking at me and I shrink under his searing gaze. He asks Blue, “Is this the Warner kid?” Blue nods and Shabby gives him money.

Blue hands me to Shabby then heads down the long gravel drive and gets in his truck and drives away. I suddenly want him to come back. I want him to take me back to evil Emmica.

Part 3

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© Arachnid Weaver 2018

A Dreamer in the Darkness: Part 1 (Short Story)

Hey guys! I recently wrote a short story, but it’s far too long to put in one post because humans have short attention spans, so I’m going to break it up into a couple parts. As you are reading it, the beginning may tickle your memory because I did post the first page or so when the story was still a fledgling, but now it has been completed and is somewhat different.

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Ihug my blue teddy bear, Zachy, tightly as my parents prepare to leave. Mother says his name is actually Zachary, but my little two-year-old tongue couldn’t say so many syllables and he became Zachy from then on.I like “Zachary” much better. It sounds more refined, but Zachy will forever be “Zachy.” It’s too late to change it.

My parents are going on a date tonight. I asked them not to. It’s cold and cloudy tonight, and I can tell I’m going to have nightmares. Father said I’m a strong boy and as long as I have Zachy and Emmica I can do anything. I said I’d be brave for him.

Mother hands Emmica, my babysitter, some money. She smiles at them. Her smile is like poisoned candy. I don’t like her, but my parents think she is lovely. Mother says to trust Emmica, that she’ll always do what’s best for me.

Emmica is a pretty girl, like the kind you see on TV. She has straight, white teeth and green eyes and dark brown hair. One streak is pink and blue. I haven’t figured out how she makes her hair colorful. I’ve tried concentrating, but my hair has not turned orange yet. My floppy yellow hair always stays floppy and yellow no matter how much I try to change it.

My parents hug me and then leave. I flinch as the door slams, locking me inside with Emmica. As soon as the front door is shut, Emmica’s pleasant smile morphs into a scowl. I grimace. She doesn’t like to be here, but she also loves to collect money. She says, her voice sweet, “If you need anything, I’ll be at Izzy’s,” and heads out the door. I flinch again as it closes.

I gape at where she used to be. I don’t think Emmica is supposed to leave me alone, as I’m only five—nearly six—and children are always supposed to be with someone older. I’ll tell Mother about her when they get back. Maybe then I’ll get a new babysitter who has a pleasant smile.

Izzy lives close by and Emmica likes her much more than me. I don’t like Izzy. Sometimes, she plays loud music at night and makes it hard to sleep. I can feel it echo in my bones.

Emmica has never left before, and I’m alone for the first time. Usually, she never pays attention to me, but she stays with me. I’m scared, but I’m almost six. I can do things by myself and I’m strong.

I’m hungry. I may be almost-six and I may be able to do things by myself and I may be strong, but I cannot cook. It’s already an hour past my dinner time and the door doesn’t open. Mother gave Emmica a key a few weeks ago, so she shouldn’t need my help to come inside.

I’m at war with myself. I want to find Emmica because I want food, but I’m not supposed to leave by myself. My hunger wins. I grab my sweater and a set of keys from the closet and I head outside. My friend, the moon, is hidden by heavy clouds that hang low in the dark sky. A biting breeze blows litter and dead leaves across my feet. I shiver.

I walk down the porch steps and the driveway until I’m on the sidewalk. I run, unsettled by the night, next door to Izzy’s house and ring the doorbell. Nobody answers. The music is playing today and I can feel the porch shaking under my feet. I count 120 seconds then ring the bell again. There are neon lights in the windows behind the curtains.

This time Emmica answers. The door flies open and she leans against the frame. There’s a fading smirk on her electric-blue lips and her eyes are glittering. She’s wearing a short maroon dress and shoes that make her look like a giraffe. I have to tilt my head back to see her face. Music pounds behind her and I can hear people shouting.

“Well?” she asks. The happiness has drained from her face and has been replaced with her usual expression. It looks like she’s eaten a sour grape.

“I’m hungry.”

She smiles that ugly smile and says, “You’re a smart boy, Sammy, right? You can figure it out.” I wince. No one but Mother is allowed to call me Sammy.

She slams the door in my face.

Emmica told me I could figure this out. I look at my kitchen and think it’s improbable.I’m not allowed to touch the knives or the oven or the microwave and I don’t know how to cook.

I open the refrigerator and scan its contents. There’s milk, but I can’t make cereal since the milk jug is too heavy for me to lift. The freezer is too high for me to reach and I’m not supposed to stand on the chairs since I fell one time and broke my arm.

The clock says it’s past my bedtime. I sigh, giving the kitchen one last long look before heading upstairs to brush my teeth and head to bed.

I spit into the sink and when I look up, I see that I’m frowning, so I make a silly face and smile. Smiling is so much more pleasant than frowning unless you smile like Emmica.

I’ve just slid between the freezingcovers when the doorbell rings. It must be Emmica. She’d want to return before Mother and Father come back, but she has a key. She shouldn’t need to ring the bell, but maybe she left her key at home.

I slip out of bed and pad down the stairs, but I stop before reaching the door. Usually, Mother or Father answers the door and they always look through the peephole, but I can’t reach it without standing on a chair. But if it’s Emmica and she doesn’t have a key I need to open the door for her because she can’t spend the next three or four hours on the porch and I need her to make me food.

The door bows open and it isn’t Emmica standing on the other side of the threshold. The street lamp on the far side of the road flickers, turning the tall man in front of me into a shadow. He takes up too much space.I have to take a step back to breathe.

The street lamp flickers for a bit longer, caught between light and darkness. It chooses darkness, but the light from inside casts a warm glow on the man’s face.

“Hello,” I say. It comes out meeker than I intended, so I try again, stronger.

The man is strangely dressed in a baby blue suit. Father always wears black or white, or if he’s feeling spontaneous, a color like vanilla pudding. The suit is sharp and creased in all the right places, but it’s old. It’s worn so thoroughly in some places there’s only thread and I can almost see his white shirt beneath. The edges of the sleeves are frayed enough that it looks like he’s decided to tape his dog’s shed fur to the edges of his sleeves. The man doesn’t have a beard, but he doesn’t not have a beard either.

He says, “Quick, come with me, Sam. Your parents are in danger. Only you can save them.”

Part 2

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© Arachnid Weaver 2018

My Pet Moths

Dear nonexistent readers,

Due to the impending doom and sneaky approach of midterms, it seems as though the days have inexplicably shrunk.

Apologies to all who have been here long enough to have read this post before, but I will be reposting an old post.

 

When I said that my only pets were plants, I lied. Unintentionally, of course. I also had some pet moths.

Way back a long time ago, in kindergarten to be specific, everyone in my class received a board game. I mean, technically it was a board game, but it was printed on regular printing paper, which, as the name implies, is used for printing upon. Usually. Printing paper has a plethora of other uses too, which I’m sure you can use your own imagination to figure out.

So anyway, returning to the point at hand, my lovely kindergarten teacher gave us all a board game and Mexican Jumping Beans. I was entranced by the beans. My five-year-old mind could not process the magic of legumes that moved on their own. Usually, legumes require people to move them.

We were not told that Mexican Jumping Beans are not, in fact, beans, but rather they are moth larvae.

So I brought four or five moth larvae home, convinced that they were magical beans.

For a few minutes, days, or weeks, I can’t remember, we all played this lovely board game with my magical beans. It was brilliant.

Then, one morning, I wake up, as most people do on most mornings, and I decided to play my lovely board game. I was very surprised to find that the little plastic box where I kept my magic beans were full of moths.

 

Sleep Stories Part 1: Kindergarten

Sleep is that wonderful time between being awake where everything is bliss and there is no homework or taxes to worry about.

But it’s so hard to sleep for enough time, what with the hectic schedule that comes with being awake and often spills into the nighttime hours. I usually have to get up at 6 a.m., which is before the sun rises and therefore inhumane.

People keep telling me to take a nap when I start nodding off in the middle of conversations or trip over my imagination and fall, but I refuse to sleep during the daytime when there is a sun in the sky, telling me that there is work to be done (however inefficiently).

I remember back in kindergarten when there was rest-time. Ahh, rest-time. Such horrible memories.

There is a large difference between rest-time and naptime. When you have naptime, you are supposed to sleep. When you have rest-time, you are supposed to lie on the hard floor quietly, doing nothing, saying nothing, and staring at nothing. But you are not supposed to fall asleep. Never fall asleep! It was absurd.

But this nothingness was only supposed to last a few months into the school year. Once we learned to read, we were expected to read during rest-time. I, on the other hand, couldn’t really read well until first grade, so I continued to spend the time doing nothing with a book in front of my face.

But before the class, as a whole, could read, we were to bask in our nothingness, but nothingness is quite boring, especially for a fidgety five-year-old. So what is a fidgety five-year-old to do other than fall asleep?

So I fell asleep. And my lovely kindergarten teacher didn’t wake me up (Shoutout to you, Ms. K, the best kindergarten teacher in existence). But the class could not wait for me, a tired and fidgety five-year-old, to get the sleep she needed. They had things to learn! So while I was asleep, the rest of the class read Chicka Chicka Boom Boom and made construction paper palm trees. They were glorious.

Analyzing Nursery Rhymes

It’s raining it’s pouring

The old man is snoring

He bumped his head

On the foot of the bed

And he didn’t get up in the morning

I’m sure you’ve heard of this nursery rhyme at least once in your life. This is the way that I learned it (which means that this is the right way).

I used to sing this nonstop whenever it rained. It probably annoyed my parents indefinitely. But whenever it rained and I was reminded of this song, I used to wonder why the old man couldn’t get up in the morning.

And how did he even bump his head on the foot of the bed? Was he sleeping upside down? Who does that? Does he thrash in his sleep? If so, why does he thrash about? Was he having nightmares? What was the cause of the nightmares?

 

Let us say that when this man was nothing but a mere child with about eight years under his belt, he loved the jungle. He wanted to grow up to be a scientist, scouring the Amazon for new plant and animal species. And this eight-year-old Old Man had to practice. How else would he get ahead of the game? So Old Man decided to swing with a rope off of the roof of his barn to practice his vine-swinging. However, Old Man lacked the upper-body strength required to swing from a rope and he immediately slid down it, earning rope burns on the pads of his fingers.

Now, while we wait for Old Man to fall, let us talk about his little sister, Annie. Annie was a pretty little thing with about six years behind her and she adored nothing more than her stuffed animals. She stored her large stuffed animal collection in a wading pool beneath the barn to protect them from the rain.

Some would say luckily (and others would say unluckily) for Old Man, Annie’s stuffed animal pool was positioned directly underneath the rope from which he fell and Old Man, therefore, fell into the wading pool instead of onto the unforgiving ground. While Old Man was thrashing about in this wading pool, blood pumped with adrenaline and surrounded by the glass eyes of stuffed animals, Old Man believed that this was his end and that he had reached his untimely death. This supposed death was not due to his large fall. Rather, it was due to his little sister’s stuffed animals.

After this curious incident, Old Man had developed a fear of stuffed animals. It didn’t affect him much, though, until he had grown middle-aged and had a daughter of his own. This daughter of his adored stuffed animals as much as, if not more than, little Annie. But Old Man was careful in avoiding his daughter’s toys and he managed to hide his fear.

But in his ripe old age, Old Man’s daughter thought that piling his bed with her old stuffed animals would bring the old man some comfort. How wrong she was.

Instead of the intended comfort, these stuffed animals plagued Old Man with terrifying nightmares. But no matter how much he might’ve wanted to, Old Man could not remove the stuffed animals from his bed as he was a kind and gentle soul and he could not bear to hurt his dear daughter’s feelings.

And this is the reason the old man’s head was near the foot of the bed.

 

Now as to why he didn’t get up in the morning.

I think he died due to the bumping of his head.

Growing Up: Some Random Thoughts

Growing up is hard, as many people often notice. For example, after one is grown, there is less fun, more work, and less free time. When most people become old, they reminisce their younger days when their joints didn’t hurt and they had time for fun and they didn’t know swear words.

But when most people are young, they cannot wait to become old. When they are old, they can have jobs, they can change the world, they can be tall. They wait in anticipation for the days when they are the firefighters rescuing cats, the police fighting bad guys and saving the cities, or the famous singers whose names everyone recognizes.

I was the oddball of the group. I wanted to stay young forever and I dreaded growing up. (I did want to be taller, though. But not too tall. I was terrified of how the banisters on stairwells would then be shorter.)

But one cannot help but grow up as it is in one’s DNA. However, even if you were to stay in a kindergartener’s body forever, you would still grow in experience. (Would it be acceptable to relate one’s age to the number of swear words they know?)

A negative side effect of growing up, besides banisters being shorter, is the loss of magic. I love fantasy books now, but I didn’t when I was younger. Maybe this love of fantasy is like a vitamin supplement to make up for the lack of magic in the real world.

When one is young, one believes in a whole variety of magical beings and one puts absolute faith in their existence. Such magical beings could include (but are not limited to) leprechauns, the tooth fairy, Santa Claus, other fairies, cats, gnomes, elves, Santa’s elves, Keebler elves, etc.

The uncertain existence of these magical beings brought a sense of excitement to otherwise mundane kindergarten life. I say uncertain for two reasons A) you never see them, even though you know they exist and B) the doubters out there always said you are wrong, even though you know deep down that it was they that were wrong.

When I lost my first tooth and I put it underneath my pillow, ecstatic for the soon-to-arrive tooth fairy’s arrival, the tooth fairy forgot my house. Predictably, I was quite upset that morning. I couldn’t believe that the tooth fairy had forgotten me.

My parental units sat me, the five-year-old without front teeth, down and told me that the tooth fairy and Santa Claus and leprechauns and other fairies and Keebler elves were all lies. They were stories and they were fake. This shattered my little heart. I don’t remember my reaction, but it was probably along the lines of screaming and/or crying.

But, of course, I wasn’t crying because I had discovered that Earth was populated solely by human beings (among plants, animals, and microscopic life, of course) instead of being inhabited by mythical all-powerful beings as well. I was crying because my parents had lied to me.

Second Grade Stories

Once upon a time, many years ago, in a land that is fairly close, there lived a second grader named Arachnid Weaver.

Arachnid was an averagely normal second grader; average height, average amount of letters in her name, average age (7-years-old).

Now, Arachnid Weaver was different in one way. She had misread the school supply list, so instead of having one 48-pack of crayons, she had two 24-packs of crayons. Arachnid, being a kind second-grader, shared her crayons with her friend, Ava, who hadn’t read the supply list at all and had no crayons. What was Arachnid to do with her second pack of crayons anyway?

Ava was a very nice second grader as well, and she treated her friend’s crayons with respect, using them for coloring purposes and nothing else. Since Arachnid always got her crayons back at the end of the day all in one piece, she didn’t mind Ava using her crayons.

Until one day.

Ava returned her crayons to Arachnid as usual, but when she opened the box, one of the crayons were missing.

“What happened to the bubblegum pink?” Arachnid asked. Maybe it had rolled under the table or Ava had misplaced it.

Ava held out a decapitated bubblegum pink crayon in her palm.

Little Arachnid took the pieces and clutched them in her hands, tears welling in her eyes. “What happened?”

Ava replied, “I dared Luke to bite the pink crayon in half.”

Arachnid yelped and thrust the potentially slobbery crayons into the nearby Luke’s hands and stomped away, ferociously wiping her eyes and mumbling, “You can keep it.”

It is safe to say that Arachnid refrained from sharing her crayons from then on for the fear of saliva contaminating her possessions.

And they didn’t live happily ever after.

The end.

Babies: Some Random Thoughts

When you think, you usually think in words. For example, if you are planning to eat pasta for breakfast tomorrow morning, you would think, Hey, you know what? I think I’m going to be crazy and eat pasta for breakfast tomorrow morning.

Personally, I prefer breakfast foods for dinner over dinner foods for breakfast, but that’s getting off topic. The main point is that those thoughts were in English, or whatever other languages you think in for our bilingual nonexistent friends.

Babies cannot speak, it’s one of the things that make them babies. But before they learn to speak, or even before they learn to recognize language, how do babies form thoughts? It wouldn’t be in words, as they don’t know any words. Would they think in colors? Images perhaps? Sounds? Sensations?

Well, they must think somehow. Babies may not be able to do math, but they aren’t daft. They certainly can communicate in their own way. But if they do think in images, let’s say, then how do these images come about? How do they identify the images without words? Language is such an important part of our lives, it’s hard to imagine what it was like before we knew any.

Everyone was a baby at some point or another, therefore everyone had the ability to think without words at some point in their lives. So do we still have this skill? Can we imagine an object in our minds and not give it a name?

And what would a baby even think about? It would certainly be different from what an adult thinks about as babies don’t have to worry about taxes quite yet.

Picture Books: Some Random Thoughts

I wasn’t that into reading as a kid because, let’s face it, most picture books aren’t that interesting. I mean, sure, some kids love them and that’s great, but other kids, like me, are thirsting for adventure and just aren’t satisfied with picture books.

When I was a kid, I couldn’t really read properly until second grade. I was a lost cause in kindergarten, and I was painfully slow and had to sound out each and every word in first grade, but this post focuses more on my kindergarten years year. I couldn’t read and I wasn’t in a mood to learn how to because there weren’t any picture books worth my time.

Why should I read about something boring when I could watch something funny on TV?

Picture books should be interesting, just like any other book, only with simpler language. And sure, we could even tie some morals in there. I think this could spark a reading revolution.

In second grade, books started to grow on me and I’ve loved reading ever since and that is thanks to Interesting Books with Actual Plots. My favorites were The Secrets of Droon and The A to Z Mysteries series. I also loved Rainbow Magic, even though it was everything I hated about Magic Tree House (repetitive plots with the Same Exact Thing happening in Every. Single. Book.), but hey, it was about fairies and I couldn’t resist.

Weird Things I used to Think

When I was a child, like most children, I didn’t understand every single aspect of the world I was in. So, to solve this predicament, I created some theories about the world I was in that I was fully invested in.

What is the Universe?

Before I start answering this question, I would like to remind you, dear nonexistent reader, that I completely believed all of this.

So what is the universe? Why does it exist? Why does space exist? Why does anything exist? Why can’t it not exist? What is existence?

There is nothing but imagination. We are actually a world inside of a world. We are the figment of the imagination of some other being we cannot see or interact with.

We are inside a crayon-drawing on a sheet of lined notebook paper, and if one were to take a spaceship to the end of the universe, the spaceship would hit the edge of the paper and stop. It would not be able to go any further because the paper had ended.

Where do Clouds Come from?

The clouds are actually made by planes. Every morning, before I wake up, planes fly through the sky, creating the fluffy wonders we call clouds.

When pilots take the day off, we have cloudless days.

This is also how meteorologists know what the weather is going to be.

 

Meteorologist: “Hey Pilot, what’s the weather today?”

Pilot: “I made some storm clouds earlier. It should rain.”

Meteorologist: “Great. Thanks. I’ll call you back later. Want to go out for some coffee?”

Pilot: “Nah. I’m good. I don’t drink caffeine.”

Meteorologist: “What about cake? Brownies?”

Pilot: “I actually do drink coffee. I was just trying to politely refuse your offer because I don’t like you and would rather do anything else than spend more time with you than I have to.”

Meteorologist:

Pilot:

Meteorologist: So cookies?

Pilot: ——

Where does Fog Come From?

When the clouds are too heavy are for the sky, they descend to Earth as fog.

Duplication

You know how when your eyes unfocus you can see double? I thought that things would actually duplicate themselves for the longest time and once, I spent the entire day thinking that I had switched my feet around.

Driving

You know how when it’s dark and you squint at lights the lights kind of spread out? I thought that the light actually got brighter for the longest time. Whenever it was dark and we were driving, I would squint to make the lights brighter and help my father drive.

Characters on TV

We had this large, boxy TV, not a flatscreen, and I used to think that the television characters lived in the TV. Read more about this here.

Magical Car

Small people today have electric cars that can move by themselves when you press the gas pedal. When I was a kid, we had these plastic cars which were like bubbles on wheels with a hole in the floor. So you were to sit in the car and stick your feet through the hole and walk. So basically, it was just walking, but less efficiently because you had to lug a plastic car around you.

Well, this was the type of car the other kids had. My car was powered by magic and moved by itself.

But this “magic” was actually my parents pushing from behind.

 

What crazy stuff did you believe in as a kid?

My Favorite TV Shows as a Small Person

This post (obviously) discusses my favorite TV shows as a small person.

For all of you nonexistent readers out there who don’t know what a “small person” is, I’ll elaborate after the colon: A small person is a human being who has not existed as many days as a medium or large person.

When I was a very small person, my absolute favorite TV show was Dora the Adventurer. I just couldn’t get enough of it. All of my things were Dora-related, as well. My bed, my backpack, my clothing, my pencils, my toothbrush, my plate, my silverware (which was actually plastic, not silver), my placemat, this cushion thing that I put on my dining chair so I could reach the table, a little chair/couch thing, my bike, my bedspread, my toys, my shoes, my socks, my hair accessories, etc. But then, one day, I decided that I hated Dora more than anything else and I kicked all my Dora-related material possessions down the static escalator.

But before I hated it, I adored it. Back in the olden days, we used this big, boxy television set, not the thin flat screens that small people today get, and I thought that Dora lived in the television and she would come out at specific times to have an adventure.

Dora the Adventurer is one of those small people-shows where the characters ask the TV-watchers for help to answer questions. When I was a small person, I thought that I was actually communicating with Dora and that she really needed me to help her answer the questions. Until one day, when I wasn’t quite sure what the answer to a particular question was and I was still thinking when the allotted time to answer the question ran out and Dora started speaking again. She told me that I was right and that I had done a good job, even though I hadn’t said anything. My small person heart was crushed. Dora couldn’t really hear me. She was a liar. (Although this does not correlate with my future hatred of Dora the Adventurer.)

When I was a slightly less-small person, my favorite TV show was Danny Ghost and after that, it was Generator Dex.