Send us some words of your own.
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Kind contributions to The Bug Ranch Send us some words of your own. |
by Shadowdrake The Drakhan's Lair: |
No cockroach ever awakened me before noon to discuss the merits of long distance carriers or extoll the merits of the Lord Jesus Christ. They just clean up my random debris at night and breed in my walls, occasionally nodding an antennae as we pass each other in the hall. So why waste time annilating cockroaches when telemarketers and evangelists roam free? Why class one type of vermin above another? Face it, we kill roaches because we can. And the repulsion they trigger in us, is the recognition of our own ruthlessness. © Shadowdrake |
by Tim Blackwell |
 a bag of silverfish poured in the workings of a watch: the thief of time ©Tim Blackwell |
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After the rain after the rain |
by Johnny Mayall |
 O, little cockroach-- You filthy little bastard. Stop eating my food. © Johnny Mayall |
by jewel jewel@gleeful.com |
 For some inexplicable reason, the image of the orange-haired hooker and the brown butterfly has stayed with me. I don't know why, what with all the crazy things I used to see when I was a gardener. Four summers in a row I planted, watered, and weeded flowerbeds in city parks. I loved beating the flowers with a garden hose, coaxing them to grow with cold water and hot sunlight. One muggy July morning when I was blasting some young blossoms with icy water on the "bad" side of town, I aw the orange-haired hooker making her slow and deliberate way up the road toward me. (She walked *so carefully* on her heels!) The hooker was an object of some derision around town. It was unclear whether her hair was orange by accident or design. She always wore bright gold or purple blouses with a short-short black skirt. You couldn't miss her. And the way she walked! Those heels...such a roll in her stride, from ankle to hip. Each step was like a ripple through her body. I rather admired her. I never made fun of her. In fact, I often secretly wondered about her: what she was like, how she was doing, if she was lonely or happy or in pain... The orange-haired hooker approached and held something out to me. At first I thought it was a pair of oversized sunglasses. She said, "Ah think it's hurt. Ah thought Ah'd bring it ovah to the flowers." I looked closer, not understanding. She spread "it" out on the palm of her hand. It was the biggest butterfly I had ever seen, fully as large as the span of her broad hand. She explained how she'd found it lying in the road and picked it up because it was pretty. She felt sorry for it and wondered if I could help. Maybe the flowers, or the water could... I stared. It was beautiful--all shades of brown from cream to coffee. Tan and taupe. Rich chocolate. Soft fawn. Dirt brown. And there were stark black markings on the lightest portion of its wings that almost looked as if they could be words... This butterfly was more astounding than any of its more brightly colored cousins. I couldn't look away. *Could something be spelled on it...?* The orange-haired hooker's voice filtered back in. She was asking me if I knew how to help it. All I could think of to say was, "Put it on that zinnia. Maybe it just needs to rest." She spoke some more and I nodded. My garden hose lost some of its pressure. I couldn't bear to water the flowers too hard, now. Finally, the kind and graceful orange-haired hooker sauntered away, leaving the brown butterfly with me. "Maybe it'll be okay," I kept saying. She nodded and rolled, ankle to hip, down the road. I swallowed hard when the brown butterfly fell off the red zinnia into the dirt. I watered very. carefully. and slowly. around. it. © Julie Brown-Micko |
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authors, and posted here with the authors' kind permission. Illustrations prepared by The Bug Ranch. |
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