The Bug (Extended)

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
My 100 word bug story extended/continued.

Submitted: July 19, 2017

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Submitted: July 19, 2017

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They glow in the dark. This one had a faint green phosphorescence. ‘Scuttle, pause, cower and repeat’, over again, as the little bug slowly making its way up the big stone walls that were covered in dust so thick you could see where the little bug had previously wandered. The brick was old but sturdy, like an old knight, used but reliable … safe. I slowly trailed a finger up the bug’s path as I neared it heard me, sensed me, as if the hair’s on its tiny neck where on edge. They should be. It crouched to the floor, planning for escape, but all in vain. I grabbed its two back legs. Raising it up high it started to struggle and swing and wriggle, putting its soul into a resentful escape, eventually the bug stopped, however it was still trembling from within, I could feel its heartbeat; fast and hard. It was finally aware of its undeniable fate, licking my lips, I lower him down slowly, relishing in my power over this vulnerable creature. With a gasp of breath the bug was gone, swallowed whole, eaten alive, left to rot in my insides. To die of thirst. Rocking back onto my perch to continue my endless guard over mysteries of the high tower. To re-pay the un-re-payable debt. I sigh, wondering when the supplier will arrive with my next vat of sustenance for I am losing control and that, is one scary thought.

Ignoring the thoughts that plague my desolate mind, I climb the old cut-stone bricks to the tower top. The tower is ancient but that door never seems to age. Putting my cold pale hand against the great oak wood door, reminiscing of when I first arrived, the door smelling as fresh as ever. Fixing a big steel rod over the door, stopping anything getting in, or worse … out. I make my way slowly down to my perch. No need to rush, nothing ever happens. My supplier still hasn’t arrived and I’m thirsty, the kind that water cannot fix. I move scratching the floor and walls, marking my forced home, like a tiger stuck in a box, no hope and no escape.

 


© Copyright 2017 Ann Morse. All rights reserved.

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