flash fiction: the itsy bitsy spider

I was inspired to do a flash fiction story (since I've never done one before) by Katie Grace's story she did a while ago called The Creature's Piping Song.

Flash Fiction is a short-story of sorts. However, it must be under 1,000 words. It's a great way to break up a writing routine that is too monotonous, or if you just want to write something but don't want to commit to a novel.

This one is based off a nursery rhyme (because I like taking those and exploiting them to their darkest extent). I am even thinking of doing a series of novels or a collection of flash fiction like this based off nursery rhymes. They're actually quite terrifying if you look at them in the right light.

So, warning: This is a little dark. It's dark and death and yeah. So read if you're okay with that, but if you're not, just don't read it.

The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the water spout

Down came the rain and washed the spider out

Out came the sun

And dried up all the rain

And the itsy bitsy spider climbed up the spout again.

The quiet singing floated from the breaking voice, keeping in time with the dripping water from the spout in the kitchen.

The child’s body seemed nothing more than a moving heap of clothes, bunched up and shoved into the corner for later pick up and washing.

A door opened somewhere.

The child lifted their head towards the garage, singing pausing for a moment.

When shoes shuffled on the rug placed down in the coat room, they dropped their head back down to their knees, hugged against their chest, strapped in place by worn, weak arms.

“Arana?” A voice called softly.

The child stopped the singing to look up. “Mommy?”

The woman slowly approached her daughter, arms out in a welcoming, calming gesture. “My love, what is going on?”

The small girl bolted off her pillow and into her mom’s arms. “Mommy.”

Her mother stroked her hair. “Love, tell mommy what’s going on? Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“Someone came,” was all the shaking child was able to explain.

The mother picked up the toddler, placing her on her hip. “My little spider, who came?”

“Bad.”

“Bad? What’s bad?”

“Bad.”

With a puzzled look, the mother merely kissed her child’s forehead and trotted into the kitchen. “Well, darling, let’s get you some food. You must be hungry from mommy working late.”

“Bad.”

“Bad. Yes, bad.” She kissed the child’s cheek with a smile. “But mommy’s here now, so the bad is gone, okay?”

| | |

Arana’s fingers weave through a loose strand of hair while she perches on the large marble “railing”. There were things that she couldn’t remember—words, names, dates—they were blank in her mind.

But today everything came back.

She had an entire life, and the things she couldn’t remember were some of the darkest moments.

Her face lifts to the sky, eyes wide and unblinking as they dart from cloud to cloud, watching, waiting.

For what, she didn’t know.

But for something.

“The itsy bitsy spider, went up the water spout,” she quietly sings, her words floating over the campus.

“Down came the rain, and washed the spider out.”

Images flash before her eyes—the newly regained memories. Images of blood, of a man with a knife, of her with a knife—of her mother with a knife. Of bodies, of tears, of leather straps holding her to a chair, of electrical signals racing across her eyes, damaging her vision for a short while.

“Out came the sun.”

Her mom hugged her, told her nothing was wrong, that everything was alright.

“And dried up all the rain.”

She would lie, tell her everything was okay, that nothing was going to happen, that she was a wonderful daughter with a wonderful mother and a wonderful life.

“And the itsy bitsy spider…”

The muscles in Arana’s arms tighten. She scans the campus, only to see someone skateboarding by with a breakfast burrito shoved into their mouth. When they are gone, she still doesn’t calm down.

“Went up the spout again.”

Her mother wasn’t good, she didn’t die a hostage.

She died holding the hostages.

It was to wipe her memory, the electricity. Too bad she ended up teaching herself to ignore the fear and pain that flashed through her body when certain things triggered her.

Her mother didn’t want this for her. She didn’t want what the man was trying to do.

Her mother was damaged, Arana realizes that now. She was damaged and broken and shaped to fit the mold of someone to kill people for money.

That’s what the man wanted for her, but that’s not what her mother wanted.

The phone number showed up again.

She doesn’t know it, but it’s been calling.

And with these memories, she has a pretty good idea of who it could be.

Her thumb shakes as she taps the button, raising it to her ear.

No greeting comes from her mouth—no sound, no breath, no nothing.

And in turn, she’s met not with silence but with the quiet, distorted sound of a broken piano tapping out a disturbing rendition of that nursery rhyme she knew ever so well.

The words form on her tongue, but trip silently off her lips.

“The itsy bitsy spider…” she mouthes.

It continues, and her heart seizes up.

“Hello?” she finally croaks.

“West End, 10 PM, sniper rifle is in the dumpster twenty paces to your left.”

It clicks off.

That song that once held so much power over her fear is realized. She never sang it to calm her. She sang it because it was all that she could hear during her molding.

She doesn’t want to do this.

And yet.

And yet she shoves herself off the stone railing and walks the twenty paces to the dumpster, digging out and assembling the sniper rifle with robotic precision.

While she worked, while she slipped off into the shadows supplied by the thickening clouds and setting sun, she hummed that fearful tune.

The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the water spout

Down came the rain and washed the spider out

Out came the sun

And dried up all the rain

And the itsy bitsy spider climbed up the spout again.

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Maybe I'll do these instead of monthly wrap-ups. Monthly flash-fiction, eh? Wha'd'y'all say?

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Do you guys write flash fiction? What genres do y'all write? Let's talk down in the comments, make friends and such!

~Olivia Ann