bug Soma It was well past bedtime. A gentle glow illuminated page after page of white on the small laptop in the middle of the bed. The soft whir of a fan softly stirred a breeze. Then there was something more. A monster in the dark produced a blip, then a buzz. It was the long winding whir of some insect flying across the dark. The sound was as crisp as giant grasshoppers on summer afternoons, and as close as could be. A shudder of discomfort, and the lights turn on. She is half-disrobed and unkempt. She is slouched shoulders and round, curly hair when she catches herself in the mirror on the wall. She is creeping, carefully stepping, and searching across the bed for the flying beast. So when she leans down to inspect her pillow, what a wonder, what a sight indeed that it should be some tiny seedling creature no larger than her pinky nail and not the monster she thought had arisen. The gentle sliver of life is exquisite tea green and fades at the ends to the softest blushing rose. It appears exquisitely soft, and impossibly smooth. No legs or unsightly antenna or protrusions. Here now, is a wee tiny thing of beauty. A swift movement. The only wind that of the ceiling fan. She smiles at herself in the mirror, a tiny corpse lost within the paper in her hand. 240916 what's it to you? who go blather from