I could have sworn it was Wednesday, but somehow my cell said it was friday.
I walked out the back door to the courtyard to get some and air and smoke a cigerette, which is an oxymoron in itself. The light was so bright when I stepped out into the decrepit overgrown garden, that it took my eyes a second to adjust. I stepped on to the grass but my blurred eyes were making the ground look like an ever shifting, velvet venamous rug.
When my eyes finally came into focus I choked, and couldn’t find the air to scream that bone chilling horror rebel yell that my soul was projecting. Under, over, and around my bare feet were millions of spiders. The ground was a centipede blanket of multi colored taranutulas that made my very core come alive and die at the same time.
As I lost control and went limp, the manager grabbed me, before I hit the stone antibellum steps. His black Jaundice ridden finger-nails didn’t even scare me as he whispered, “Mam, its the running of the tarrantulas, always happens after a storm.”