drinking the sun through petal straws

Bees climb the steps to the sun

standing proud, leading the way

turning backs on obscurity

bobbing to dance of the clouds

drinking the sun through petal straws

hanging on to wisps of dreams

vibrant in rich June earth

an unfinished sketch

of pure vanilla delight

drinking the sun through petal straws

pollen baskets in their hands

sunlight coursing through veins

dripping aromatic bouquets

bees dancing tangos

drinking the sun through petal straws

luminous brown eyes

wink in delight

leaving scattered trails

of seed progeny as they go

drinking the sun through petal straws

nectar orgy of bees

in cheerful sunshine emotions

exposed roots of their strength

transparent smiles of their souls

drinking the sun through petal straws

a hundred smiles along the way

sky sheeted with pillow clouds

spirit opens sunflower petals

knowing the sun always rises.

AN ENCOUNTER WITH A WRONGLY WINGED INSECT

First let me just pretend I’ve got all my facts right here. Because frankly, I did no research for this neither did I have the particular urge to.

Back in the days, cockroaches did not have wings. And now they do and they don’t, pardon me, KNOW HOW TO FUCKING USE IT! And so they scramble around hitting every obstacle, including me on one recent occasion, after which I will never be the same again.

I chase it around everywhere and then I don’t see it again. Phew, it’s gone. Now I can itch that spot on my neck that’s being a bitch. And what’s that? Haaaaaaa!!! It’s the cockroach again. I thought it was fucking gone!!! Mummy!! Get the light! Ha shit I’m alone and not young, ain’t no momma coming to save me. Haaaa!!! Haaaa!!

Because apparently they also look for footholds everywhere.

And for the next few hours after that, I think it all. Cockroaches in my mouth and in my throat, all over me. And I keep remembering that scene from that stupid Truth or Dare horror movie my friends made me watch, where the girl or was it boy? Died by cockroaches. And this is, among many other similar reasons, why I don’t watch horror movies.

I had killed one winged cockroach few hours outside the house and so I was also left thinking this was some kind of revenge. It’s highly possible.

Point is... Someone tell me why the cockroaches fucking upgraded when they didn’t need it or EVEN KNOW HOW TO ADAPT TO IT??!

It wasn't a monarch butterfly. The science teacher told us the long fancy name for the insect, but of course nobody actually payed attention. It was a monarch though. Standing high above us in the glass case on the wall above the chalkboard, pinned. Orange, papery wings spread wide. Colours of the dawn, I saw it each day. It was beatiful, and terrifying. Something so innocent, but it was so condescending, looking down at us as we went through the day, as to say "you cannot fly". But it couldn't either, it was pinned. A trivial display ruling over.

I. The Blue Beetle

When I was younger, I would go on trips to visit family. They lived eight hours away, so we only really visited on holidays. On one such trip, I was struggling to fall asleep. As I lay there with my eyes closed, trying to sleep before we arrived, I felt something on my leg. Just a tiny little prickle. And when I opened my eyes, I saw a massive blue beetle crawling up my leg. Even though I'm not usually scared of bugs, this beetle freaked the shit outta me. So I screamed. And then... I woke up. No beetle. I had actually managed to get a bit of sleep... but at what cost?

I itched my legs for the rest of that car trip.

II. Hissing Cockroach

Ah yes, another beautiful story from my childhood. This story, as I like to introduce it, is the story of how I was raped by a cockroach. Or wait... maybe it was entirely consentual. Shit, that's worse. Nevermind. I'm just going to tell the story now.

Me and the other kids sat in a circle, watching the zookeeper. She smiled at us and said "Who wants to hold the hissing cockroach?" And me, being the bug-lover that I am, instantly raised my hand, even as everyone around me was making faces.

So I held the adorable guy in my hands. It was a hissing cockroach, which as you may know get pretty big. And me, with my tiny little kid hands, dropped the poor thing. This was very traumatizing for the little guy, who decided to seek shelter in the nearest safe place— my shorts. Honestly, this made me laugh more than anything. I was not scared of the bug. After all, I just dropped it. I understood that it was probably terrified of me.

The other kids, however, were absolutely horrified.

While the kids and the zookeeper stared at me in absolute shock, I calmly guided the bug out of my pants and back into safety.

Pretty sure I deserve a purple heart for that. Or maybe the cockroach deserves a purple heart, for surviving the battlefield of little kids. Maybe we both deserve an award.

As I walked out of the exhibit, I looked at my mom and said "Mama, I want a hissing cockroach as a pet."

III. "You Can't Smell."

There is nothing more terrifying than an elementary school bus. Jeering kids, motion sickness, and lonliness are all sure to await you.

My bus friends were absent that day, so I sat alone. As I sat, I saw a big, flying ant crawling up the window.

Now I happen to like creepy-crawlies. Ants, spiders, flies, moths, the list goes on. I love them all, and I make sure to save them from my cruel parents (who kill them whenever they enter my house) whenever possible.

So I saw this bug, and I thought: Huh. I wanna pick it up.

However, when I picked it up, the ant didn't seem to like it very much. So it bit me. Like, rude, man. I'm just trying to make a friend.

"Ow," I said.

Unfortunately, I said it too loudly. The person sitting behind me leaned over the seat.

"What happened?" she asked.

"An ant bit me," I said. It sounded kind of stupid, but it's the truth. I ain't gonna lie.

However, this girl didn't like that response.

"That's impossible," she says. I look at her like she just tried to fling me out a window (which, sadly, I believe is the fate that befell the poor ant).

"What are you talking about? Why?"

"Because," she says matter-of-factly. "You can't smell."

I snort. "Uh... I said I got bit by an ant. That has literally nothing to do with my sense of smell."

"Whatever. It's true."

"But... it has nothing to do with my sense of smell," I say. By now, the entire bus is looking at us, which is making me very uncomfortable. So I add on: "You're stupid," which is the best comeback my elementary-school brain can come up with.

To which she responds: "I know what I'm talking about. My parents are doctors."

And honestly, this is where my memory ends. I can't remember if I had a savage comeback at the time, or if I was too flustered by the other assholes on the bus. Either way, I know that there was no reasoning with her. Who knows where she is now?

I just pray she doesn't try to follow in her parent's footsteps. I don't think I would want someone that clueless operating on me.

THE END.

My cat was an indoor/outdoor cat. She would often go outside at night and when she wanted to come back in, she would paw at the screen of my window. I always heard it, and there were many nights when I would be woken up at one or two in the morning and would grumpily go to the door and let her in. My window is right above the headboard of my bed and I usually leave it open at night because the ambient noise helps me fall asleep.

One night I was struggling to fall asleep and was reading a book in my bed. It was about two-thirty in the morning and I was just getting to a good part in my book when suddenly, I heard a noise. A noise that I can still remember to this day and I shudder every time I think of it. It was a plop, barely audible and yet incredibly traumatizing. Because that little plop was the sound of a spider landing on my face.

In retrospect, the spider wasn't that big, but it was on my face. My exhaustion and shock made it feel like the biggest spider in the world. I flung it off my face and then ran upstairs, waking up my dad and making him come down to kill it. Normally I have no problems with killing spiders myself, but having a spider land on my face really shook me up, and I couldn't do it. My dad rolled his eyes at me, but still killed the spider. He still likes to tease me about it, but I'm so grateful that he killed the spider that I don't really care.

After the spider had been killed and I had some time to calm down, I started to wonder how that spider had managed to get into my room. The window was the most likely solution, but the screen I had should have kept it out. So, in order to satisfy my curiosity, I moved the blinds on my window to look at my screen. And that was when I saw it.

There was a hole in my screen. A hole big enough that spiders would have no problem dropping into my room and on my face. And I knew exactly why that hole was there. My cat. My stupid cat had pawed so much at my window screen that she tore through it. She was lucky that she wasn't anywhere near me when I made this discovery because that was the closest I ever came to wanting to murder something.

How come when i come home there's insects on my wall, insects on my wall

I shutter when they crawl, all them insects on my wall

It looks pretty black and it gots a lotta legs

I dont wanna touch it and i hope it didn't lay eggs

Man i really wanna sleep, but i know that they creep

Then the insects gonna go from my wall to my sheets

How the fuck imma sleep, I gotta kill these bugs

But when i go to hit the bug imma miss, it'll leap

I could buy spray but man i'm kinda cheap

And I got a shoe, but can't these insects get a clue

I don't wanna kill it, and doesn't wanna die

I'll leave the room and hopefully they hide

I come back some time later, and they're all gone

But they could be anywhere, now I'm paranoid

Are they in my sheet or my pillow, did they creep in the middle

I'm looking at my bed and they're not suddenly dead

I don't need a nap, I need a wick and a match

Set this bitch ablaze i can sleep another day.

I went for a long hike one Sunday afternoon. When I arrived home I had to use the restroom. So I sat down on my toilet and I realized that I had forgotten my phone. I was disappointed, but I was forced to be present. I looked down and on my pant leg there it sat. A baby grasshopper, staring at me. I could see it breathing as HE looked me dead in the eyes. I watched it slowly start to crawl up my leg, but I didn't let this rush me. When I was finished. I slowly walked outside and it jumped off my leg and hopped away. Thank you baby grasshopper, for keeping me present.

I had just struck a match to light the candle on my bedside table in preparation for a relaxing evening with a book by Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being. The bedroom was pleasantly dim, and shadows played their usual harmless tricks as I lowered the dancing flame down to the wick. But the shadow in the candle did not flee from the light. The light had angered it.

The specter extended its legs and enveloped the glass with its dark matter. The match was snuffed out as I hastily jumped back and ran to switch on the ceiling light. The creature hoisted up its armored torso, its gangly gray legs unfolding and rearranging to engage in warfare at any moment. It was the largest house spider I had ever seen, and it loomed large and discordant in the sizable pink candle. While I have always appreciated the symbiotic relationship between humans and spiders, they sometimes pose an inconvenience and thus are removed humanely by the old in the glass - out the window method. This tactic would surely fail, as I feared this fella would outrun the glass and disappear into a crevice in the bedroom. I would then lie awake all night anticipating some arachnoid reprisal if I dared shut my eyes.

I admired it with disgusted wonder from a safe distance. Several legs tapped softly against the glass as it readjusted its position. I wondered if it was looking at me right now. How old it was. Where did it live. If it ever made spider babies. If it had poisonous fangs. If it had ever crawled over my face in the darkness while I slept. I quivered at the appalling thought and looked at the Kundera book on the bed. An alternate title came to mind: “The Unbearable Heaviness of Unsettling Thoughts.” And then a vacuum flashed in my mind.

I held the hose tightly with both hands and aimed. I told the spider out loud that I was sorry (I wondered if it could hear me) as I clicked the ON button with my foot. It tried to hold onto to the glass for a few seconds, to no avail. Its armored body sounded like a wayward rock as rolled up through the tube. Now, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel bad. I did. But I would have felt a lot worse if it had manifested itself anywhere on my body at any time. I like to tell myself that it survived and crawled out of the vacuum, dazed but unscathed, just to find itself in the closet. And maybe in that back of that closet it found a magnificent dark hole to crawl into and start a new spider journey. Or maybe it’s holed up behind the toolbox or window cleaning fluid, patiently waiting to exact its revenge on the foolish human who dared to remove it so unceremoniously from the lovely strawberry-scented candle it had staked claim to.

The unbearable heaviness of unsettling thoughts, indeed.

Summer’s day, dad instructed his son’s cut down the weeds that stood three feet in height along the canal. The weeds had covered the area where the chickens would scratch for feet.

Buck, being the oldest, suggested to his brothers we had better wear our blue jeans and a long sleeve shirt. Put on your boots, because though weeds have thistle and thorns.

Steve, next in age, suggested taking their hat’s it’s going to be hot today in the afternoon sun.

Harold, the youngest, said I want to use the hatchet.

Buck agreed. You can use your Boy Scout hatchet. Steve and I are going to use a corn knife.

Dad took the boys out to the weeds. Be careful of your brothers and don’t swing the hatchet and corn knives toward your brothers. Pick a spot and work your way to the canal. Stack the weeds in a pile by the trash, burning barrels. Once they dry out, we will burn them.

Whacking weeds and stacking them for about an hour, then Brother Steve yells, “Hornets, Ground Hornets!” Harold fights the hornets standing his ground, dropping his hatchet. Steve drops the corn knife as he swats at the Hornets, to no avail.

Buck looks up and sees his brothers in trouble and drops his corn knife and grabs both of his brothers, one under each arm and dives into the canal.

Buck instructs his brothers to swim underwater to get away from the mad hornets. Once they reach safety downstream. Buck takes them back to the house where they undress. Both his brothers stung nearly twenty times, and Buck did not get stung once.

As the boys took off their clothes, they would find that hornets were in their clothing. Dumping out their boots were hitch-hiking hornets, which met their doom with a boot of the oldest son.