When You Move into the Brick House
When you move into the brick house you don't bring boxes. You march a procession of castaway cheesecloth tied to the end of sapling branches that bump into doorframes.
At night the carpet turns into small spiders that hide in the seams of your clothes and underwear. They snuggle beside your zipper.
When you get to work the next day you find the spiders sneaking out of the folds of your wallet and erecting forts among the campground of cubicles.
They raise tiny flags from matchbox stick garrisons and distill the burnt coffee from the break room to make firkins of booze. Your boss tells you that you have to stop the spiders from burning post-its or you'll be fired.
You inform the spiders that they need to keep quiet, but the leader shouts insults at you until you threaten to squish the camp. He rolls his many eyes and mutters words that your mother told you would get your mouth washed out with soap. Imagining foamy miniscule bubbles erupting out of the lead-spider's mouth with every oath, you hover your foot until the spiders wave white flags made from loose leaf paper.
When you get home to the brick house you find a bed made up of long-haired orange cats. You strike an agreement with the principal of the ginger moggies that come nighttime you can sleep on them in exchange for fish heads and tails still attached to the skeleton.
You boil dandelion stems on top of a fat-stomached iron stove and share the brew with the carpet spiders who are now complaining of headaches and hurt bellies. While draping the tiniest wet wash clothes over prickly foreheads you "tut-tut" their bad behavior.
In the morning the spiders tap your face until you wake. A cluster holds the phone to your ear and urges you to take the day off of work and drink wine out of the hats of acorns with them. You oblige them and spend the next several hours playing a drinking game called "Zip Zap," tossing back a thimble's amount of white wine every so often.
The long-haired orange cats whittle fish bones into darts, and together you toss them at a painted bull's eye. The eye blinks lazily causing the cats to miss. They dent their arrows on the red slabs.
Several hours later your boss calls to tell you that while you were napping the spiders had been making prank phone calls in the form of pirate shanties. This has consequently led to your termination.
You confront the carpet spiders and they are remorseless, but they offer tulip cups of alcohol in lieu of apologies. The long-haired orange cats continue throwing fish bones at the wall. They make tapping sounds as they bounce off the bricks.
is an editor at HOOT Review
, a contributor at SSG Music
, a cat lady, and a Nutella enthusiast. When not poorly playing the piano, she chronicles the many ways that she embarrasses herself at the website www.youlifeisnotsogreat.com
. She occasionally drinks wine out of a mug that has a smug poodle on it, and she's not wonderful at writing in the third person.