By C.J. Sully
Born from an idea, it started out its journey a tiny brown arachnid, an earthy hue just like the rest of us. But the more silken chains it spewed from its bottom, the more bulbous and green it became.
Its web, like a sticky hooker’s fan, spread from the bottom of the old office’s file cabinet to the top. The spider, dark green now, could still be squished so it needed to grow as fast as it could—it knew it was only a matter of time before it became utterly invincible.
In white woven sleeping bags, lay drained bug bodies in various levels of decay: beetles, flies, moths, mosquitoes, gnats, crickets—and yes—even other spiders (the ones who didn’t grow green enough).
The size of a man’s fist, it danced on its web when it felt the familiar vibration of new prey. Another moth. Skittering down to its victim’s new prison, it worked with its greedy hands, vomiting poisonous bondage from its mouth, spinning lines of its precious silk until the moth joined the others for their apocalyptic slumber party.
The spider grew twice its size, brightening to a lime-like hue.
Pleased, it started to spread its web away from the filing cabinet, connecting the old rectangle to other rectangles: desks, walls, doorways.
And then it ventured out.
It grew to the size of a car, a bright margarita green Lexus.
It spun its web across the lawn, then to across the block, then across the city.
The spider grew, and it grew, and it grew, until its skin glittered and every time its feet touched the ground, Earth vibrated with the sound of currency.
It grew, and it grew, and it grew, until the Middle Class was no more.