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In Issue 13:
Scintillations
Eight Legged Freaks
Cliff Jumping To Freedom
Princess of Crooked Lake
Easy Delivery
Transiting Venus
Different Things
Gateway To Middle Age
Letters to
My Younger Self

Featured Artist:
Andrea Scher
Superhero Guide
to Designing a
Creative Business
Photography
Belly
Funny
Grasses
Liam
Origami
Red Flower
Distance

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Previous Issues

Eight-legged Freaks
Katrina Martin Davenport

Let me tell you a little bit about spiders. They are not cool, interesting, or fun to have around. They are evil, vile creatures put on this planet to torture, nauseate, and petrify me and other arachnophobes. Their nasty fat, furry bodies with eight spindly legs are designed perfectly for wreaking havoc on normally sane minds.

I am constantly on spider patrol. The tiniest, most miniscule black speck on the wall catches my attention, even in my peripheral vision. The minutest movement turns my palms sweaty and gives me heart palpitations. To ensure my safety, I must determine whether the offensive speck or movement is a spider, and I usually enlist someone else, preferably my fiancé, brother, or father, to assess the situation. If I am alone, I go into hyper-panic mode.

I must be vigilant. The disgusting buggers are quick! They dart around looking for the perfect hiding space from which to shoot out of when I least expect it. At any moment, they could run right up my leg, resulting in a heart attack or sudden death.

I have had a fear of spiders from an early age. My theory is the black widow that spun a fat, silky web in my crib caused it. Or it could have been the other black widow that crawled from the bathtub faucet when my mother ran my bath one evening. Or perhaps the spider slinking across my waterbed one summer night did it. No matter – all I know is they terrify me.

Several adult experiences solidified my neurosis. First, in high school, I was collecting insects for my zoology project. In the field across the street from my house, I peered into a fascinating hole in the ground. Little did I know a nasty, hairy wolf-spider with shiny, black eyes the size of watermelon seeds resided there. It popped out at me and I ran screaming from the scene. I will never look into a hole in the ground again.

Next, during my senior year of college I moved into a basement apartment teeming with arachnids. The previous tenant failed to mention the problem until the day I moved in. I found one in the closet, and as I screamed she said, “Oh yeah, there are some spiders.” SOME?! There were hundreds! And they weren’t just any spiders. They were big, black, and capable of winning Olympic medals for sprinting.

Nearly every morning I found one attempting to climb out of my bathtub. I’d be sitting on the commode, hazily doing my business when my spider radar sensed movement in the tub. Nothing is ever supposed to move inside an empty bathtub. My heart would drop into my stomach, I’d lose the urge to pee, and I’d reach for the faucet. That sucker would drown in 10 seconds flat as I yelled, “Die you stupid piece of crap!”

In this apartment I witnessed spider sonar firsthand. As I attacked a particularly grotesque spider with my industrial can of bug spray, I noticed another smaller spider running to his aid. Too bad he was so brave – he ate it too. I swear the big guy was sending out distress signals.

Recently, I sat in heavy downtown Denver traffic when I felt something on my arm. Not good. I looked down and instantly went into panic mode. I nearly hit the car in front of me before I slammed on the brakes. A spider was crawling UP MY ARM. It was ON ME. This is the worst thing that could happen. I flicked it off, screaming, and immediately regretted that decision. Now it was on the move. It could be anywhere.

Shaking, I pulled into a gas station. I got out of the car and looked at the seat and the floor. I wasn’t going anywhere until this spider bought the farm. I opened the back door and my spider radar located it instantly. I grabbed my ice scraper and beat the offensive creature into the carpet. I almost puked. But it was gone.

I’ve got it so bad that I jump when I’m flipping the channel and a tarantula appears on screen. I know it can’t hurt me, but it freaks me out! My heart races and I can’t find the channel button fast enough. But I won’t go to therapy. There is no way I’ll sit through all of that – first look at spiders in books, then watch spider movies, then sit in a room with a spider in an aquarium, then hold a spider…NO WAY. Never. And don’t point them out when you’re with me because they’re a neat color or they spun a beautiful web. Instead, quietly walk over to the spider, and smack it, stomp it, or even gently place it in a newspaper to take outside. Just don’t let me know about it.

Katrina Martin Davenport is a children's author and photographer. Her first children's book, Denise's Mold, hits bookstores in March 2005. She also runs three web sites, including her online journal www.feistyscribe.com, and recently started the Writing Friday project (www.kmdavenport.com/writingFriday.htm).