The Spider
A short story.
The kettle clicked once, and steam billowed from its lid; The countertop shook as the water rumbled violently inside — the process felt loud, more so now it was autumn and much darker in the mornings. Phil made his coffee carefully, making sure he stirred it without tapping the mug loudly with the spoon — he didn’t want to disturb his wife, who was still in bed.
Yes, it was dark, and there was a faint scent of bonfire in the air; his neighbor (who took pains to keep his garden prim and proper) had burned a large pile of fallen leaves the night before — Phil wasn’t as bothered, he liked the way his once-green lawn changed color by an army of dead, orange leaves; he preferred his garden to represent the seasons for what they were — come winter, he’ll enjoy looking out at a lawn of diamond frost.
Nearby, his dog sleeps soundly in his bed, not yet ready for his morning walk, he snored steadily, his golden fur rose and fell in tandem with his snores and groans. His eyes opened only slightly as Phil took a seat at the dining room table, but soon closed again as Phil lifted his coffee for a sip.
Still groggy, Phil pondered the day ahead, he found his mornings oddly philosophical, he enjoyed the serene, quiet atmosphere; but the darkness outside the window tapped against an old, dormant, primal fear. He smiled, quietly laughing it…
