Sting Tales

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Commercial Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Some tales told by mosquitoes.

Submitted: July 27, 2012

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Submitted: July 27, 2012

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The grey descends. The evening is highlighted in irridescent greens and pinks. My kind bred in the last floods, when puddles and creeks grew fat and solid and brown. I have a million children who have a million more. The puddles erupt with us every night and we thrive on beef blood, kangaroo blood, rabbit blood, mouse blood.

Now the bright lights come, and others follow. They stop near to where I fly. I zip up, hover, come closer. In the greyness, highlighted, appear magical creatures, with blood sweet as sugar and skin shining with a salty wealth of sweat. Sinking my feet into their plump, moist surface I draw into a vein. The artificial crazy blood fills my senses. Through my eyes I see them, oblivious. I withdraw and hover, near. Sure, as always, there’s a mighty Slap! Closing on the place I’ve just been. They only feel it after. I am as stealthy as the wind. I sneak in for another taste, another rich vein, another moment of oblivion.

The third time I go for the sweet blood by the eye. They do not see me come in. I bet they wonder how I do it. I am more cunning than they are and I win.

 

A hissing sound fills the air.

Choking poison meets me and I violently lurch backward. It feels safer further back, out of the stink.

I see my brothers and sisters, my children circling in a swarm. We sharpen our stingers and wait for the stink to wear thin.

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I like the ankle - thin skin, sweet blood, low risk. But my brother here, he likes the eye. Sense of victory. We sit humming at the limits of the poison cloud. Waiting. Waiting. We are the strongest creature in the world, the most patient, the most hated. Oh, they hate us. The ones who will not harm another soul will slap us. The ones who pride themselves on their compassion and mercy, those ones kill us without a moment’s thought and laugh when we burst and their captured blood spurts out.

What those hypocrites don’t know is that for every deathslap they deliver, another two of us are born. We are coming and coming. We’re stronger and we’re tougher and there are more of us than of them. We’re harder. We’re wiser.

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I like the ankles myself but my sister, she is an arse woman. Hovers around and around waiting for a zap of tasty arseblood. She leaves welts many times her own size with her big stinger. Plunges through a wall of arsefat to the salty destiny below. Arseblood is low risk but tricky to obtain from the sitting humans. Which is why we all love it when they foolishly lie in their hammocks. Hammocks! We hover below in a joyful cloud in the rich scent of reclining human, safe from slapping, safe from spray, strolling lazily upwards every few minutes to where the threads, a convenient stinger’s width apart, leave luscious skin poking downward, straining downward for us to feast on. And my sister is the happiest of all, hovering round the convenient downward arse mountain and thriving and thriving.

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All year long we wait for tourists. Tourists! With their delectable sheen of perfumed sweat. The locals are suspicious and hard and smothered with repellent but the tourists are open and happy and trusting of the world, and they leave strips of skin free from chemicals and they camp by the river in clouds of irrelevant coilsmoke that we evade and dart through to dine on their sweet southern sugar-soaked blood. Tourist season is feast time for us. They go away itchy and welted, with hive ankles and mottled arms, sunburn and scratches, and we go to make love and breed in our paradise swamps. Oh, it is a good month for mosquito kind.

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The great messenger wind comes to blow us to our next destiny. The great wind has blown us many times in mosquito history. Coming as a zephyr and leaving as a torrent, we blow up, up in a cloud, surfing and strafing with the currents that are the voice and language of us all. I see my sisters rising with me, my children, all of us leaving our birthpool and watching it pass into yesterday. Mosquito kind always looks forward to these manic exodi, although we know many of us will die early, deposited on barren land devoid of food or water. Or we will be frozen or blown out to sea. But when we go, there are many more breeding and hatching from swamps and ponds. And great wind maybe, just maybe will blow us to a paradise of stagnant water, heat and fresh blood.

 


© Copyright 2017 Ruth Campbell. All rights reserved.

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