Dead, the slender bug astonished with its complexity of sprung parts and the volume of its viscosity, the evidence of a supreme and comically-mad engineer’s attention to detail.
One of God’s little basement projects.
The poor little dude.
What did this skittering mystery hope to find on the other side of the room? Perhaps the bug was an adventurer or explorer from a moist, subterranean world, this thwarted expedition long planned and invested with ancient dreams.
By now the creature’s community had likely surmised that the explorer was dead; who knows how such information might be conveyed among such mysterious beings. Those antennae –those quivering tendrils– likely served some highly sophisticated function for inter-species communication that humans could not even begin to surmise or understand.
Surely the bug had some sense of the dangerousness of its mission and recognized its position as unwelcome interloper; how else to explain its mad, breakneck dash from the corner, the audacious and risky traverse of the bedroom rug, in the middle of which it found itself so hopelessly exposed and ultimately doomed?
It surely imagined it was going somewhere, perhaps even to an unknown, undiscovered somewhere that had been the dream of generations of myriapods –chilopods and diplopods, centipedes and millipedes: who was to say arthropod didn’t dream of extraterritorial exploration and conquest?
After the boy smashed the bug with a tennis shoe he went back to smoking marijuana out of an apple lined with tinfoil.
He was super rushed out by the whole bug thing.
And Pink Floyd, he had discovered to his maximum satisfaction, sounded most excellent through headphones.
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