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The Spider, The Stinkbug, and Gus

The spider knows the world through tension.  

Every strand carries information.

Every vibration means something.

The fly is frantic.

The moth is heavy thunder.

Gnats are nervous tremors.

This one is wrong.

It has weight, but no panic.

Movement, but no struggle.

The spider approaches slowly, legs barely touching the silk.

Then the air changes.

The warning spreads across the strands - sharp, bitter, chemical.

The spider stops.

Not food.

Never food.

The spider withdraws.

And begins cutting.


The stink bug knows the world through surfaces.

Warm means light.

Cool means shadow.

Vertical means climb.

It pushes forward slowly, deliberately, the threads tightening around it.

Movement nearby.

Presence.

Predator.

The stink bug releases its defense.

The stench spreads.

Warning.

Stay away.

The tension loosens.

The surface collapses beneath it.

The stink bug climbs.


Stink bugs are just nasty.

Even the cat knows this.

The cat sometimes investigates anyway. Instinct is stronger than judgment.

Tail twitching.

Shoulders rolling.

Full jungle-cat patience.

Then comes the smell.

Game over.

The cat recoils like it has licked a chemical spill. Head shaking. Paw to nose. A quiet, offended sound.


Then distance.

Not prey.

Never prey.

That is saying something.

Cats chase everything.

Flies.

Spiders.

Dust motes.

Shadows.

Things that may or may not actually exist.

But stink bugs?

Even predators draw the line.


The curtain moves.

Slowly.

Not like a fly.

Not like a moth.

Something deliberate.

The cat crouches low.

Waiting.

The shape emerges along the fabric. Flat. Shielded. Crawling with the confidence of something that has no reason to hurry.

The cat pounces.

Contact.

Instantly -

The smell.

The cat recoils, shaking its head, pawing at its nose. A small, disgusted sound escapes.


The stink bug continues climbing.

Unbothered.

Untouched.

Unwanted.


The cat backs away, watching now from a distance.

Not prey.

Never prey.


The spider finishes cutting.

The web sags and collapses, lowering the intruder toward the sill. The spider moves to the corner of the frame, waiting.

The contamination drifts downward.

The web is ruined.

But the place remains.

It will rebuild.

It always rebuilds.


The stink bug reaches the fold of the curtain and disappears into the darkness behind it.

Still.

Hidden.

Safe.


The cat watches the curtain long after the movement stops.

Ears forward.

Body tense.

Waiting.

After a moment, it turns away.

Then pauses.

Looks back once.

Then leaves.


Behind the curtain, the faint musty odor lingers.

The spider rebuilds its web in the sunlight.

Three dried stink bug husks rest below the sill - untouched, uneaten.

The spider does not consume poison.

The cat does not hunt what smells wrong.

The stink bug does not recognize their mercy.

It simply exists.

Somewhere behind the curtain.

Breeding.

Waiting.

The house, meanwhile, gets used to the smell.








copyright notice © 2012/2026 Michael C. Metzger


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