Mondays Should Be Abolished

August 15, 1995
5:46 p.m.

The sky's hue was that of old rose. Spider was busy spinning its web at the edge of a sugarcane leaf. She hasn't eaten anything after a week of heavy rain and was hoping to snare at least a couple of insects. Moisture was hanging thick in the air, it didn't improve her mood. The stars were slowly coming out by ones and twos. Fireflies are her favorite; she delights in seeing their light fading along with the ebbing of its life. She was in the act of setting herself in the middle of her trap when Spider saw the shadow of something coming above her. Next thing she knew, she was inside what looked like a wooden room which reeked awfully of phosphor.

Darkness and the chemical stench was all that embraced Spider for a fortnight. She was getting used to it, the hunger that is, she could never stomach the cramped space and nauseating scent. Suddenly she felt a sliding motion and felt the warmth of sunlight coming from above. Spider was about to crawl out when darkness slid in again. Along with the darkness came a familiar buzzing sound, "horsefly," Spider thought, "fresh," after she dug her mandibles on her victim's flesh. "I wish it was a pretty firefly," was all she could comment after eating.

She supposed it was the day after when another shot in escaping her cell offered itself. The room slid open and light streamed in, she quickly got out and instinctively scurried on the first thing she saw, a thin stick. Freedom may just be at the end of this stick.

Spider never got to the end of the stick, blocking her way in the middle was a big drop of water that reminded her of three days worth of thirst. She enjoyed the feel of water on her face and in her mouth. She sucked all of it. And then she was once again back in the darkness of her wooden room.

After what seemed like two days, Spider was nudged awake by the butt of a stick. She climbed the edge wondering if it would be freedom this time or yet another drop of water. What she saw at the end of the stick was another one of her kind, as thirsty and hungry as she is. She wrestled with her kindred for survival. The other one was too quick for Spider and she felt the venom numbing her senses. "I wish you were a pretty firefly," was the first and last thing Spider heard from the other.

August 15, 1995
5:40 p.m.

The sky's hue was that of old rose. Ayna was in the middle of the sugarcane plantation equipped only with a flashlight and an empty matchbox. She could hear rustling as her friends swim through a sea of leaves looking for spiders. Honestly, she’d rather be sitting under the huge mango tree at the edge of the field and wait for the sun to set if it weren’t for her older brother who bullied her into coming with them. Ayna liked pretty things and only played with spiders so that she won’t be considered an oddity by her friends. She was admiring the stars as they were slowly appearing on the sky when she caught a glint of webbing just an arms length away. She pointed her flashlight at the web, saw something crawling on it, grabbed it as quickly yet gently as possible and stashed it inside her matchbox. Ayna shuddered after slipping the matchbox on her left pocket, an effect that doesn’t fail after she has touched a spider. “These critters are just so ugly!” she muttered while walking home. “Why can’t they be something nicer to look at?” she griped on. “I wish you were just a pretty firefly,” she sighed while patting her left pocket.