Beetle Legs – Day 279 – Briohny and Anna

Last night I was talking to Briohny and Anna at Roving Conspiracy. We were having a conversation about how Briohny has a visceral repulsion from velvet and microfiber. She says “it feels like a million beetle legs catching on your skin.” Anna then suggested that as a story prompt. As they spoke I wondered what would happen at the end of this challenge? It’s been so nice having people constantly suggesting things and collaborating with me on a daily basis- I wonder if I’ll be able to achieve the same thing when I finish this challenge? Here’s today’s story:

There were no humans left. What was the point of living out my days with no one to talk to, no one to hold me, no one to laugh with? I leapt, falling easily through the thin cold air. I could hear it whistling in my ear, and something else too, a kind of buzzing. Then something was slowed my progress toward the earth. I felt like a bug caught in an enormous sticky web.

Legs were grabbing at every inch of my skin. Millions of microscopic sticky hairs grasping at me and hooking into my pores. I could hear their wings beating in unison.

It turns out beetles are conservationists. They didn’t think there were any humans left until they found me. Now they’ve built me a little town enclosure and many work night and day taking samples from me to see if they can save my species. I’m not sure they’ll succeed but I’ve got what I wanted. Now I have millions friends to talk to, and laugh with, though I’m not keen on their sticky, hairy beetle hugs.  

Talking to my Knight – Day 278 – Flying Home

As I flew home from Unleashed today I began to think about the end of this challenge. I am beginning to feel like I wont exist without it. 

“…and so you can begin your journey home,” says the King. “Thankyou for saving our grey city.”

The knight stands up and went to saddle her horse. 

“Hey,” says the knight, “you there, telling the story.”

I look around my empty room then back at my computer screen. My characters usually didn’t speak to me like this.

“What happens to me at the end?” she asks.

“Huh” I reply. 

“What happens to me when you stop writing? Do I stop existing?”

“I guess so,” I say. 

“Well I don’t want to,” she says. “You’ll have to keep writing. It doesn’t have to be much, just occasionally write a sentence or two about me relaxing on a beach somewhere. As long as you keep me alive.”

I think about this. She had a fair point. 

“Deal” I say. 

She bows low to show her gratitude.