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Last night, I caught him again. The Monster Cartwheeling Spider that has plagued my living room... the last time, I released him in to the alley only to discover that he found his way back in.
This thing was the size of a tangerine, with legs longer than Daryl Hannahs. I had to use a pint glass to catch him the first time, as I feared anything else would not suffice. The width of a standard glass would have made him legless... Mr Cartwheel was a pint kinda guy, for sure.
Last night, he just sat there, looking at me. "Honey! I'm home!" So I grabed a glass (slightly narrower rim, but he wasn't moving, he was daring me to catch him again). Glass on top, Sky letter underneath. Got him.
And I sat there, watching him watch me from his glass prison, his legs pushing at the clear walls, fighting for his freedom...
I've no fear of squatting a mosquito, hoovering up small spiders, laying ant powder... but when things get a little bigger, something clicks inside that says, "wait! This one has a conscience, a life!" I wouldn't purposefully kill a baby rabbit - though they do pop when being driven over. And Mr Cartwheel was BIG.
I could almost see the expression on his face. And that's what steeled my nerves. It wasn't a baby rabbit with a twitchy nose, it wasn't cute and innocent. It was EVIL. Pincers jabbing at the glass, long legs reaching the top of his prison (the bottom of the glass) as he tried in vain to push himself free. He was Jack Torrence, and if I didn't do something final with him, he'd come back and bounce tennis balls against the wall to annoy me.
Or he might even come back with an axe.
I had to act, but I also had to be sure. WD40 is an insect killer, but the thought of lifting one end of the glass to spray him didn't sit good with me. Even with the little red staw, I was sure that the tiniest crack in his prison would be enough for him to get his legs under, lift the glass and attack.
I could flush him down the loo, but what if he climbed back out? Squishing him underfoot was an option, but his armour plated body would probably feel like stepping on a stone.
I returned to the toilet idea, but took a break for a smoke while I hatched my plan. All the time, Mr Cartwheel watched me, dared me to defeat him.
WD40 around toilet bowl so he couldn't climb back out... flush... bleach... rinse and repeat.
Plan sorted, I had confidence. I could win this war. I WOULD win this war.
Bowl sprayed with insect killing lubricant, I went back to retrieve him, half expecting him to have vanished, to see a tipped up glass and a note on the Sky envelope saying, "Ha! Nice try, Missus! I'll see you tonight while you're sleeping!" But he was there, defiantly sitting front and centre, pincers still but primed.
I carried him gingerly, knowing any sudden movement could scupper the plan. I held him over the toilet bowl, showed him my plan, and I sware his expression was of cocky confidence. As if meer water would be his end?!
A quick jerk of the glass and in he fell, landing with a small splash. He opened up his legs, touching either side of the bowl, relaxing on his back, pincers slowly opening and closing. It was now or never. I pushed down on the lever, and Niagra Falls opened up above him, driving him down the U bend and away. The saftey lid on the bleach had me panic. I should have known to open it in advance. And I sware there was a leg clinging on, long enough for Mr Cartwheel to pull himself back, climb back out... Fear had me in its throws, but then the lid came free, and half a bottle of thick bleach slid down after him. The leg lost its grip, and I flushed again.
Rinse and repeat.
Rinse and repeat....
I am a murderer. I have killed twenty three people over the last thirty three years. I have no pattern. No design. No type.
To do the right thing is hard. Really hard.
What if doing the wrong thing feels right? How does it work when doing wrong is the right thing to do? When my work helps others, comforts them, saves them? How is it wrong then?
It all started when I killed my father. I pushed him over the bannister in the house and he died when he hit the stairs. His neck, left hip and the thumb on his left hand were shattered when he came in to contact with the old solid wood. He had just stabbed my mother twice in the stomach and I knew he'd come after me next. So I pushed him. He didn't know how to fall.
I was nine.
At twenty two, I was on the freeway when I heard the DJ on the radio station talking about a car full of bank robbers being chased on my road. They were behind me and coming up fast. They'd shot dead three people in the bank that they'd just raided. So when I saw their car in my rear view, I reacted. I swerved into them, made hard contact and their car spun uncontrollably until it flipped. Two of the four died at the scene, one more in hospital three hours later, and the last in the electric chair 16 years later.
Then there was the known paedophile who I caught attacking a child in the bushes in my local park. I heard the kid's scream and just reacted. I punched him hard, and when he hit the ground, his head hit a rock. It was lights out for him.
After the sixth, I realised that I'd caused the death of all of these criminals, and had gotten away with each murder. Even the local paper heralded me as some sort of freaky hero. 'The guy to be around when you're getting mugged' they said.
Maybe that's when I believed I was invincible. The law hadn't touched me. Well, they had, but only to shake my hand and give me a pat on the back. They loved me.
Now I hunt for them. The murderers, rapists, child molesters, bank robbers, thieves... I've clocked up thirty three in total. Nine that the authorities know about. I've learnt that they don't spend the time investigating the death of a drug pusher, they have bigger fish to fry. Maybe I should make myself a super hero costume. Purple always suited me. My mother always said that it made my blue eyes sparkle.
I have a taste for it now. And the low life of the world don't attract interest. If I had murdered the Governor's daughter, I'd be on the FBI's most wanted list. Instead, I'm cleaning house. Clearing out the cockroaches. Making good of what is bad.
To do the right thing is hard. Really hard.
As she bent over to pick up her jumper, the old man on the bench said, "Look! There are two moons out tonight!" She'd looked up to the sky before she realised what the cheeky bugger meant. Tutting at him loudly, she waddled off down the street, mumbling to herself.
Terry chuckled. He knew she'd go home and have a laugh with her husband and two sons over it. He knew she was the type who loved a bit of banter.
He knew everything about everyone. He knew that the young girl standing at the bus stop checking her phone every five seconds was waiting for that call or text or message. She'd had a row with her boyfriend and was waiting for him to call her. He also knew he wouldn't, and that by the time she got off the bus at her destination, she'd have called him. Terry also knew he wasn't worth it.
He knew that the gardener weeding the pansies in his garden was about to win the lottery. He also knew that the resulting increase of cash flow would see his whole family fight and fall apart. You had to be careful of what you wished for these days.
He knew that that the young woman locking the doors on her flower shop was two weeks pregnant. She didn't know yet.
He knew that the driver of the flash audi was going to die on the M1 at 7:21 the following morning. Car pile ups were a nasty business.
What Terry didn't know, however, was who or where he was, why he was there, or where he had been. He just knew that he was. And that was always enough for him. He didn't feel hungry, but couldn't remember ever eating. He wasn't thirsty, but didn't know the last time he drank. He didn't know where he lived or slept, but wasn't sleepy so didn't really care.
He just knew that he was.
Animals had a habit of gravitating toward him. At his feet sat 2 stray dogs and three cats. The cats all had different owners, and their names were Shelley, Ozzy and Munch. The dogs lived around the town somewhere, and he knew they'd be picked up and re homed soon. The bitch was going to live with the Jacob family in Hustletoon Road. The male was going to end up on a farm. Both would be loved and cared for. Terry smiled as he stroked their heads. All was good.
A man in a suit came to sit next to him. He looked like a man in despair. He didn't acknowledge Terry. He just sat and held his head in his hands as he wept.
Terry watched him for a moment, then knew his story. It had been the best year for the young father. His beautiful wife was six months pregnant with their second, he'd had two job promotions, their bid on the new house had been accepted and his brother had been given the all clear after years of cancer treatment. Up until 26minutes ago, he'd been the happiest he'd ever been in his life.
Then he'd recieved the phone call. His father had passed away. He had adored him. They had been the best of friends for his whole life. His father always had a way of cheering him up when things were down. They'd had this secret way of making each other laugh, even through tears.
Terry could see it now. The father would tilt the boys head up and say, "Chin up lad, it's not all bad!" Then he would play-punch the side of the boys chin gently, "I could be Sugar Ray, and that punch could hurt!"
Sugar Ray was dead, and so was this mans father. But the love would never die. Terry knew this. Terry knew that he would do exactly the same to the unborn son that his wife now carried. Terry knew that though people don't last forever, their legacies did. Small things they said or did. Generations would carry it forward. That was just the way things were.
He got up from the bench, and stood before the weeping man. "Chin up, lad," he said, and the man raised his face in wonder to the ghost that stood before him. Terry gently play-punched him, and even as his hand glided though the mans chin like it was air, he still said, "I could be Sugar Ray!"
"And that punch could hurt," the man finished, the tears in his eyes blinding him from the magic before him.
Terry wandered off, knowing that his job on that bench was complete. He did not know what or who he was, he just knew that he was.
It's been a while...
Being Grey was first published on Kindle in 2010, with the promise of the follow up books hanging over my head like an awkward post it note. "Don't forget!"
The first book will soon be available in paperback and on iBooks, and I will update you all on the release date when I have it. This will be edition 2, but the story remains unchanged.
Being Damned has been a work in progress for about a year now, and Gina and I have toyed with so many ideas! We have now, however, finalised those ideas and today, we finished chapter one!
What do you think will happen to Alice and the Pure Seers? Ian left her destroyed and confused at the end of the last book... How will the tale unfold?
If you haven't read Being Grey, pop over to Amazon to read it now!
Being Damned has its drawbacks, but it is definitely a lot more fun...
It was so hot, even the scorpions were scurrying for cover. The baked earth cracked under the heat and shimmered in the distance.
There was no comfort offered from clouds. The sky was as clear as glass.
He stood on his perch, surveying the ground around him. A single weed fought for sustenance, but it was loosing its battle and curling up as it withered and died. This was not a good summer.
The autumn had brought rain, so heavy at times that the earth could no longer soak it up. Rivers of red ran over the field, poured into the road and disappeared down storm drains. And when the winter had come, it had brought snow and ice that solidified the ground and hidden it in a blanket of white.
Spring was more forgiving. The farmers had talked of a good harvest, and the gentle sun thawed the earth and gave life to seeds. Acres of corn spread out before him, and his job had been hard with the wildlife that was attracted.
When the April showers stopped, things changed. Day by day, the temperature rose and the crops began to die. They had already drawn from the earth what little moisture it held, and when the water had gone, so had their future.
Now there was just baked earth left. For sixty days, the heat had held fast. The farmer was heard saying that the worst draught in history had only be forty two days. He hadn't been able to protect his crop.
The scarcrow looked down to his ground, the sweltering heat had baked his rags to a crisp around his straw body. He creaked when he moved. He longed for the rain as much as the earth did. It would wash away his stiffness and soak him through. His straw would once again expand and his breathing would be easy again. The sun was killing the ground just as it was killing him.
Twelve days later, when the rain finally arrived, it came with such force that the scarcrow was ripped from his porch. Being laid out on the floor, his body soaked up the water, but there was no longer any life in him to revive. As the torents of water streamed over the hard baked ground, slipping through the cracks to the softer earth deep below, life was beginning again. The earth would come back.
But for him, there was nothing. His time was over, and he had returned to the ground from where he came.
Overview: Use Cilit Bang and grout whitener unless you have Mr T or Superman around for lunch....
This stuff does do 'exactly as it says on the tin', but fails to warn you that you need arm muscles like Mr T and rubber gloves which are suitable for handling nuclear waste...
The issues:
1. The applicator is utterly unsuitable. The product has the consistency of runny snot, and therefore the arm of a small child would be more suitable to apply it to the grout. Instead, you have to squeeze it through the tube that has hard bristles on the end. This means that it is far more likely to run up your arm than down the wall.
2. The bristles on the brush are very hard (you'll find out why in a moment). It is also quite a wide brush. In my humble experience, lines of grout are never more than an inch thick... so during application, more of the product goes on the tiles than on the grout.
3. It smells like the inside of a hairdressers during pensioners day. Blue rinse and peroxide ahoy!!! I advise windows open, peg for nose and an oxygen mask.
4. Once runny snot is applied to wall, leave for 5 minutes, then use the brush to scrub the grout. This, by no means, is an easy feat. This is where Mr T needs to come knocking on the door. The difficulty also lies in the brush being attached to the tube. As you scrub, more runny snot comes out. In the end, I removed the brush to use it seperately.
6. The hard bristles remind me of the wire floor srubbing brushes than my nan used to use on the concrete door step. In fact, one of those brushes would have been ideal to use!
So, after the trial and tribulations above, what are the results?
Not bad! When scrubbing, you can see the muck bribbling away, and when washed away, the tiles are gleaming! But in todays world of quick and easy products, this scores a zero for speed and easiness! It did clean the grout though.
Would I use it again?
No. I'd Cilit Bang the tiles, then buy grout whitener as it is easier, quicker and actually gives a much better result...
Ronseal, this product has a lot of potential, but really needs to be redesigned for an easier application. A seperate applicator and brush (or wire Brillo style sponge?) would make it much more user friendly!
Mr T and childs arms will no longer be needed, thank you!
I'm in the waiting room for them to call my name. I have to see an Angel. Just a little ironic seeing that I had spent my whole life as a receptionist in a doctors office.
It's exactly the same as the waiting room in any doctors or dentists you may have ever been in. Scuffed paint on the walls and the skirting boards, old well worn furniture, broken toys piled high in the toy box. There aren't any out of date magazines though. Instead, there are lots of leaflets.
How To Cope With Change
Welcoming God Into Your Life
Finding Employment
Build Your Perfect Home
Relationship Counciling
This is not what I expected at all.
When alive, I was an atheist. I didn't believe there was anything after death. My parents had been Catholics, so I had the full Catholic burial. I'm still not sure if that was the right way to go. The cremated bodies are gone for good. Maybe that would have been a better choice. So far, all I've done is sit in this room. I don't know what is beyond the frosted windows. They haven't told me. Is this another life to live all over? Do I have to spend another forty years behind another reception desk? I hope not!
The cremated ones don't come here. It seems that the body really does get reborn. We need it after all.
This waiting room is a doctors of sort. I'm not ill though. Just missing a few vital organs. They're fitting me with some new parts. Being a Donor cost me my lungs and liver.
Apparently, I need them...
I wanted to take a moment in my story writing to say hello to all of my new readers! My blog is now being read all over the world. China, India and New Zealand are my newest additions... so to the new ones, and the regulars, I'd like to say thank you and please keep reading and sharing and sign up for updates!
Kari xx
www.karimilburn.com
It was the summer of '72 and we were twelve years old. It had taken a
hell of a lot of work, but we'd managed to persuade our parents to let us go
camping overnight in the fields just a few miles from home. ,+hooded+figures,+Puzzlewood,+Forest+of+Dean.jpg)
