Tarantula
Rebecca Jones
Tarantula
Hairy. Very hairy with brazen, unfriendly stripes. Tiny fibers of black, an unwelcoming orange, then black again. Beady, menacing eyes lined up in pairs, impenetrable by light. Dark and glassy orbs permanently glazed over, disclosing any true focal point. Legs everywhere, outstretched or curled inward, dividing total movement by eight. Legs built to shamelessly perform death’s dance. Motion so unbearably furtive and daunting as to manipulate the human eye. An endless series of nexuses spawn from a centralized paunch, and the ground recedes with every slight gesticulation. Provoking even while still. Noxious fangs hang like unfinished business, tucked away in cowardice. Unforgivably anonymous. Such is my disgust that I can hardly bare to watch the faceless monster move with such clandestinity. It knows nothing of home or belonging, only of dominance, of trespassing, of intimidation. Anything it touches is stolen. It is universally rejected, and any environment it inhabits is thus verminated. Its size is its greatest lie, as it rules through the likelihood of going unnoticed or being underestimated. The quintessential parasite, thriving off the unfortunate miscalculations of weaker creatures, serving no purpose in nature other than to kill those whose instincts fail them. Remorselessly ensnaring and then paralyzing its prey before creeping back into its hole. No organism as pathetic and vindictive on this earth exists in such a state of openness and audacity. Yet as the light hits its abdomen, each follicle can be seen with impeccable clarity. An underlying layer shines through, highlighting the delicate structure of such an intricate exoskeleton. A brilliant craft of evolution. Eyes deep and unfixed, inexplicably alluring. I am envious of such slender, graceful legs, the journey along which is marked by fluorescent strips of color. Each step is in fact eight, a sequence perfectly choreographed by nature. Perhaps even a sense of
Tarantula
Hairy. Very hairy with brazen, unfriendly stripes. Tiny fibers of black, an unwelcoming orange, then black again. Beady, menacing eyes lined up in pairs, impenetrable by light. Dark and glassy orbs permanently glazed over, disclosing any true focal point. Legs everywhere, outstretched or curled inward, dividing total movement by eight. Legs built to shamelessly perform death’s dance. Motion so unbearably furtive and daunting as to manipulate the human eye. An endless series of nexuses spawn from a centralized paunch, and the ground recedes with every slight gesticulation. Provoking even while still. Noxious fangs hang like unfinished business, tucked away in cowardice. Unforgivably anonymous. Such is my disgust that I can hardly bare to watch the faceless monster move with such clandestinity. It knows nothing of home or belonging, only of dominance, of trespassing, of intimidation. Anything it touches is stolen. It is universally rejected, and any environment it inhabits is thus verminated. Its size is its greatest lie, as it rules through the likelihood of going unnoticed or being underestimated. The quintessential parasite, thriving off the unfortunate miscalculations of weaker creatures, serving no purpose in nature other than to kill those whose instincts fail them. Remorselessly ensnaring and then paralyzing its prey before creeping back into its hole. No organism as pathetic and vindictive on this earth exists in such a state of openness and audacity. Yet as the light hits its abdomen, each follicle can be seen with impeccable clarity. An underlying layer shines through, highlighting the delicate structure of such an intricate exoskeleton. A brilliant craft of evolution. Eyes deep and unfixed, inexplicably alluring. I am envious of such slender, graceful legs, the journey along which is marked by fluorescent strips of color. Each step is in fact eight, a sequence perfectly choreographed by nature. Perhaps even a sense of