This is a reprint of my prose poem in Unbroken Journal. Most people should find it humorous. A few might think it’s frightening.

A prose poem in block format contains no line breaks. You can find more information about prose poetry in this post by R. L. Black, publisher of Unbroken.

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You gasp and squeeze your eyes shut when you see it crouching in the corner. You hope you’re wrong. You wait … until your pulse stops galloping and your breathing settles. Then you open one eye. It’s still there! You back away, beads of anxious sweat transforming into rivulets of terror on your brow. The evil behemoth watches you, following your every movement. It flexes its mandibles. It clambers closer. You envision it wrapping you in its hairy limbs, then swallowing you whole — while you scream, trying to claw your way out from its insides. It’s huge. Gargantuan. Dangerous. You know it’ll wait, watching, while it plans a sneak attack. It’ll ambush you or kill you in your sleep. You call your wife, your voice a thin plea in the foyer. You’re not a murderer. But she is. She laughs as she appears in her flannelette nightgown and sweeps the monster out the door into the frosty night. She apologizes to it. “I’m sorry, little spider.”