Not in the way of a solitary spider, but a more bookish type. My web is a spectral endeavor, a reflection of my personality—the homespun fibers of my existence. Over my morning cup of Earl Grey, I plot the formation of a new friendship. The spinster next door is fair game. Her only drawback: she has a pet mini Doberman, devoid of voice box and the flop of natural ears. When I venture forth, this unpleasant specimen—the pint-sized dog I mean—never fails to startle me with its hiss and wheeze. Don’t forget, I am a very boring creature. I retreat. In my dingy writing shed, I focus on acquiring a pet hyena. I light a cigarette and begin to surf the internet. The first hyena to catch my eye sports a grizzled fade haircut and exceptionally long canines. There is a honey-colored bib tucked into his heavy chain collar. Flecks of hash and ketchup splatter the linen tablecloth beside his bowl. It goes without saying—the hyena’s table manners are atrocious.
I’m a Recluse by Dale Champlin
