By Cath Barton
First, just a flutter in the corner of my eye as I switched on the light. I blinked it away, looked round, saw a black mark on the wall. I frowned, then realised there were more dotted round the room. Maybe four. No five. One shifted its wings. Whirled off when I approached.
The following night there were more. I caught one tiny panicky thing, released it to the cold. The next one moved too quickly, or was it me, clumsy? It escaped to an unreachable height.
Somewhere, moth eggs were hatching. It was a battle to the death. Their death.
Oh, no! I can feel the narrator’s dread and determination. No moths by this time tomorrow! Or perhaps symbolic for something else out of the subject’s control? Very good read.
Thank you so much Tricia!
Great writing. I don’t have a problem with moths as a rule, but this was so visual it had my skin crawling!
Job done then Rebecca! Thank you!
You’re welcome Catch ?
Apologies for predictive text typo. That should of course say Cath.
I do have a problem with moths as a rule! This powerful piece left me reassured that we can conquer our fears.
Thank you Beth!
Oh yes, it’s that fluttery flapping that gets me every time. And I like moths! Did you know that in Greece, they say moths are the souls of the dead coming to visit the living? That would make your story all the more creepy! Well done!
Thank you Naomi. Maybe there’s a longer story to be told!
Great job… dusty butterflies, masters of the ‘quick change of direction’