Want to create a tale for the festival Lovecraftian writers?

OK fellow Lovecraftian writers let's play a game. It's called finished this tale before the festival begins . . .

No rules to length or style, let's just see where it leads . . . Any takers?

We'll call it, "Casting the Part of the Spider".

They’re casting the play. She’d like to play the spider. Who knows the part better than she does?

The maiden in the funeral-pyre bed . . . the red stone mouths of snakes at her breasts . . . the words engraved on the back of the plain white mask . . . she knows lost, knows ice, knows fire and dust—she’s lived in its curved space . . . she’s an angel that can scream disappointment, can scream in any color . . .

She owns the book, owns a copy of the mask . . . demons with cold fingers live in her bed, they audition her every night . . .

She’s perfect.

That one is too tall. That one, not pale enough . . . She’s a true bitch, couldn’t pull it off, and those inexhaustible fake tits don’t belong in this fairy tale. She might be able to quiver, but unlatch cruel? Never! Not that readhead.

The one with the legs will more than likely get the part. They always do.

She’s sick and tired of being passed over . . . If she’d screw the producer like half the others she’d be in . . . And what real harm would it do? She be in the light. Right there, center stage absorbing the applause.

(Joe Pulver)