This is a partly dramatized version of a real event. Sorta like a memory warping after years of forgetting details. Or a dream.
I maunder a veinwork of concrete meandering over cut grass. The sun shines so brightly one can sneeze.
Around the corner. Slender black limbs reach the farthest places, and keep reaching. The blackness grows. Crimson streaks along her abdomen. I look. A black widow as big as a vending cart slithers my way.
As much as she can kill me, I haven't fear.
I talk. I know I've talked. But I forget what I talk with her. But I accept her nevertheless. She with I. I with she.
I proceed with my days as usual. But the encounter still clings subconsciously like a girl to a parent's leg asking for a pup.
Don't worry about a character to attach to.
In this story, I'm an agent with no character change dispatching an order a certain gold apple bae sent from her spiderweb in the ethers.
Don't worry about it being overly tell instead of show. There aren't that many facts to report, and I just want to get them out of the way so her spider ass could be placated. Sorry for the style being a Hemingway rip-off.
What is important is that I work a factory job for a candy manufacturer who could stand to lose a few billion dollars.
So let's get to that.
Sometime in 2019.
My day's task was to load in folded boxes in a shitty old machine meant to case a conveyor belt full of boxes of candy for export, with the conveyor lifting the candy out, climbing a spiral, and taking a skyway out for transport. Little is happening, and a bathroom with a water fountain a nearby.
Beyond break time, this is the closest to joy I'd ever gotten in this shithole. Most other jobs have you working like a goddamn hamster in a wheel with no bathroom nor water, but was still better than the certain egregore whose name everyone knows cancering off the Earth. Take 'em where you can get 'em, I guess.
The job's a lonely one, which I'm thrilled with usually since the people you interact with there always bring some sort of Pollyanna attitude or this badass one which isn't warranted when you're losing half a day of precious life to a machine. But for me, I'm with my "thoughts," and by thoughts, I mean, "Spirits I more get along with than the human beings I'm so-thought to associate." Fuck humans.
That is not supposed to be a good mindset. Fuck that too.
So I've got a misanthropic bent. So be it. But remember the character telling the story's got it. The bastard/bitch/benby who made me is a happier sort of fellow. But fuck them thralso.
Fuck 'em thrice.
But back to the back-breaking buckling down. Plenty of mental–no, spiritual–exploration has to happen. My mind's fertile and vulnerable, for better or worse, for whatever influence to come. Save for the guy relieving me, I wanted no one to fuck with me. Give me my work, give me my $12 an hour, and enjoy all the surplus value I'm giving you pigs.
Enter Spiderapple bitch.
"Hey," She whispers.
"Nope," I mouth.
"You have a pen?"
I don't respond.
"Draw something for me, will ya?" She telepaths a certain sigil.
I have nothing to lose.
It's been an easy sigil to draw. One letter interlocking with another letter and draw some arrows over the points. I draw on the candy machine. The underside of a protective railing of a conveyor belt. The water fountain. The bathroom stall of an indeterminate gender that's supposed to align with my own.
I did it. I found a way to pass time.
"Thank you very much. You go do your work, I'll do mine." A whisper resounds.
What the fuck.
Minutes later, I try to reload the same ol' folded boxes in the same ol' machine when boxes of candy jam one into the other. Red lights and sirens blare and the techs have to loosen the flow. The third eye itself fills in with red. I have no work of my own to do and I stand around like a duck grazing grass. Someone calls me an old Cherokee term “tsgili,” which I later found via dictionary to be a word for "witch."
Guess she upheld her promise.
Alice in Wonderland, huh?
The rest of the day passed by in a daze, being sent home for the day, driving, even doing stuff in my own house.
The daze wore off after a while, and I get back to life. I quit my job, and I try to spend more time in nature, perhaps even finding other human beings cool again.
P.S. The country the sigilized boxes of candy were going to was Chile. Not like the protests weren't going to happen naturally, but everyone needed a treat, I guess.
And this is what the treat shits out as.
P.S.S. And rebirth.