Tarantula skittered from the snowy window into the dust-ridden bedroom. She paced left and right. She could sense the termites eating away at the bedframe, and the carpet beetles shimmying out the closet. But overlapping those signals was the mouse family’s squeaks: the voice of a mother comforting her children from the hailstorm. Tarantula left the room.
* * *
After several hours exploring the nooks and crannies of the house, Tarantula found a cubby-hole on the floor beside the kitchen sink. She crawled in and allowed herself to get comfortable.
* * *
The footsteps of an ant colony. She detected a line of them trooping past her. She swiped them into her mouth without hesitation. They scattered, and she lunged after a few more.
When they were gone, she remained standing. Still as a stone.
Minutes passed. Then she crawled back into her den.
* * *
A high-pitched screech alerted her. It was followed by a second, crackly voice. She exited the den. The sound was laughter. Tarantula traveled to its location.
She entered the living room and found, on the knotted carpet, a turtle lying on its back, and two ravens standing before it.
“You buffoon!” One of the ravens said. “What, did you think you could run from us?”
The living room was bustling with traffic. Tarantula could sense it. The roaches congregating under the furniture. The flies hovering by the molded wallpaper. She saw a stinkbug stroll past the turtle and the ravens.
“If only we could rip you out of your shell,” the raven said.
“Had our beaks been sharper,” the other raven said. “We’d pierce that meaty head of yours.”
One of the ravens turned its gaze directly at Tarantula. Tarantula stood motionless. For minutes. Then she skittered back into the kitchen, back into her den.
* * *
From a window, white light poured into the kitchen. Hail was replaced by snow flurries. From a hole in a tree, the cheerful chirps of sparrows. Remarks at the prettiness of the snow. The desire to fly out among it.
Tarantula could sense this. Just as she could sense the presence of the ravens, still somewhere in the house. Just as she could deduce the turtle was still on its back.
* * *
Hours passed before Tarantula left her den. When she did, she went straight to the living room, and flipped the turtle right side up again. At this, the turtle beamed.
“Golly, thanks!” the turtle said. “Thank you so much! I thought I’d be scrambled like that forever!”
Tarantula stood motionless. The snow continued outside the house. Tarantula turned. The turtle tried to mouth something, but couldn’t think of more to say.
A blast of wind sounded and the turtled leaped into its shell. Angry caws echoed in the room. Then silence.
When the turtle poked its head out, Tarantula and the ravens were gone. The turtle stood and walked toward the open window.
“Goodbye, Tarantula.”
The Fiction Writer 