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The Moth

The Moth

It was once a fuzzy worm, crawling beneath the floorboards of a business. The fuzzy worm ate through the debris, eating whatever he could find to gain the strength he so desperately craved. He craved something he did not know—there was a pull, deep within him; a machine that chugged along, whether he wanted it to or not. It drove him to hunger, it drove him towards tragedy, it drove him to gather the power he required to produce the silk that he would spin into salvation.

Maybe it didn’t happen for him right away and he found the soil freezing beneath him. Maybe he died, only to become the revenant worm and continue gathering what he needed for the journey in the spring. Maybe that worm was born in the fall of 2016 and has been working for years for his shot to become something else. Maybe, we had finally, inadvertently, given him enough to feed off of to succeed.

How ever it happened, he, with his newfound strength, began to spin. The silk surrounded him, deep within the bowels of the building, encasing him in time and space—all the while, transporting him to a new dimension; the place he would become whole. For three weeks, the small package sat undisturbed and unnoticed, transforming a once meek being into a wanderer of the skies.

Eventually the day comes, and the cocoon begins to shake. A dark figure moves inside, barely visible through the hardened silk walls. He inventories his new muscles, his new girth, his new appendages. He flexes against his cocoon home and tests his new wings by using them to pierce his self-made womb. First come the wings, followed by his head and new antennae, pushed up by out-stretched legs that seem completely foreign to the new beast. As he paws and feels at the new world around him, his once sensitive fur replaced by sensory organs, scaly wings and legs, begin to cure in the raw air. He is still beneath us—but not for long.

His body searches for the moon, as if he is a member of a lunar race stranded here eons ago—but he’s confused. LED lights confuse his tiny mind and he searches for the dusty, powdered surface of home as he makes his way towards the light. He crawls, longing to use his new wings, until finally he reaches the threshold of the blinding rays. He spills into the room and catches himself. It’s his maiden voyage, and probably one of the few he’ll make in his new, adult form.

Humans take notice. Some begin to panic, some begin to watch, fascinated. Some are in awe of how big he truly is—and all the while, he flutters, unaware of the scene he causes, or even of where he’s headed. Like a tiny, frantic, Mr. Magoo of the air currents, he comes towards me with oblivion in his eyes; halfway between my shin and ankle, but ten meters out and closing fast.

Fear seizes my heart and I remember the time my mother caught a moth, roughly the same size, when I was in the second grade. She grew up in the country, but her son did not. The country mouse, wanting to share the fascinating creature with her little city mouse, might have gotten a little too close to the city mouse’s face with the bug and scarred him for life.

I watch this pterodactyl of trash flutter towards me, and trying to keep my composure, I extend my foot out behind me, trying to cut off his path—but he’s ballsy. He lands on my foot and seems to settle in. One of the fellow humans, with actual composure, instructs me to step down and I do, to horrifying results.

A long time ago, I wrote about squirrels and the bone-crunching noises that have always stuck with me. Today, the moth unseated those memories in my head. The moth snapped—it popped. When my foot contacted the floor, it was like the insect exploded—but there were no guts, just a cartoonish, flat moth that I had to walk away from instantaneously. I’m only now just realizing that it may still be on the floor over in the corner.

Oh well. I think I saved the day.

See you tomorrow.

I totally stripped down before I realize I hadn’t taken a picture of my outfit today: that one’s on me, but tomorrow will be a good one.

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