Creative writing submission from the Rest Less community – submit your entry here.
Getting up and looking out of the window at 7am, I am greeted by a thick haze of grey, silver gauze covering the world in a shimmering shroud of diaphanous silky mist.
Taking myself downstairs, I can’t wait to go out into the garden and wander about with a cup of hot water and a slice of lemon for an on-the-spot inspection. This is something I try to do every morning once I’m up and about, and have got Arthur downstairs. Arthur has always been a bit like a teenage boy when it comes to rising.
Neighbours would be mistaken for thinking my small, furry Shiba was an adolescent, as all his life I could be heard at the bottom of the stairs shouting: “Arthur come on…up you get. Don’t make me come up there again!” That said, now he has dementia and is often wandering about during the night, I sometimes let him sleep in a bit because even if he isn’t exhausted, I am.
Out in the garden, as it’s that time of year. The spiders with their fat, mottled brown bodies and short articulated legs sit menacingly everywhere in their webs, which stretch right across the garden and are absolutely stunning. Like delicate French lace – the dew hanging on silver threads as tiny opalescent pearls, their strands as fine as hairs – they create intricate and unique patterns. Arching across every corner, hanging from the arbour, adorning the trellis, and filling every crack and crevice with a magical, slightly spooky, lustrous film of resplendent white, dominating the entire scene.
It’s like walking into a misty grotto and I wander about, studying them carefully – their fine, delicate silver strands appearing so substantial once highlighted by the fog. Though terrified of spiders, their multitude of webs taking over my garden are simply amazing. What has to be miles and miles of intricately interwoven strands, create a mesh of highly sophisticated and deadly traps with innumerable tiny bodies already wound tightly up and stored in secret corners.
The air has that sharp, slightly loamy smell of moist freshness that assaults the nostrils and fills the lungs with a sense of being cleansed from the inside out. Almost instantly, my eyelashes collect minute droplets of water, making me blink them away, and the skin on my face tingles excitedly with the bright chill of Autumn.
Somehow, shrouded as they are in shades of silver grey, the bright colour splashes of my late roses, cyclamen, and winter pansies seem more vivid and sharper by contrast, like expensive jewels sparkling and shimmering against a backdrop of pallid, waxen ash. My deep red Acer – the leaves now turning to various shades of burnt umber and Sienna orange – stand out sharply against the pale, sky blue of my shed, their leaves still standing strong despite the time of year.
I feel like a character in a horror film navigating through the smoky gloom. But the only impending drama is the tiny caterpillar that descends right in front of my eyes on a long, thin strand – his body wiggling from left to right, his black head bobbing – and the fear that I might make contact with one of those fat-bodied spiders.
Feeling safer fixed in one place, I carefully inspect my chair before sitting down with my cup and enjoying the peace and quiet beauty of my garden on a misty morning. Quietly contemplating my day, I am joined by a sleepy-eyed Arthur who wanders out to park his furry bottom at my feet – his head on my knee, closely followed by Ila.
Bright as a button in the mornings, despite being mostly blind and deaf now, she races up and down a few times before blundering into her brother to demand a mandatory ear tickle from me. Not having enough hands now, I park my cup so that I can stroke both heads at the same time – Ila demanding, Arthur quietly waiting.
This is my life now, my joy; so different from the hurly-burly of my hectic working years, my two faithful beasties by my side stopping to take in the changes of the seasons. I reflect on the fact that only a few years ago, I would have already been at work nearly two hours by now, instead of sitting here, enjoying the peace of day.
We’ve been so lucky the last few days, it being so warm that I’ve been able to sit outside to read in the afternoon but now, even though the change is dramatic, I feel blessed. Sighing, I pick up my cup and chivvy my beasties in for breakfast, dodging the webs as I make my way back into the kitchen unmolested by creepy crawlies!
Are you feeling creative? We are proud to have a hugely talented community on Rest Less, which is why we’re so excited to open up a section of the site dedicated to showcasing the wonderful and diverse writing of our members. If you have a piece of creative writing that you’d like to share with the Rest Less community – you can do so here.