#entomophobia
Look, all you science-types classifying “bugs” with your “science names”. Just stop it. The truth is out there. Those are fairies and you know it.
Jeweled flower mantis? That’s a fairy.
Lace bug? Nice try, government. FAIRY.
Satin moth? FUCK YOU. FAIRY.
You can’t just go shouting this from the rooftops, they are The Good Folk Under the Hill that we do not fuck with, come on!
ok it’s time i made a post on artisanal insect chocolate startups
hey gaud quick question. are you gonna fuckin explain this one?
have a maggot, maggot
Ok but wait, chocolate covered bugs are actually REALLY FUCKING GOOD
crunchy, savory, eco-friendly, and a great source of protein! what’s not to love
Anne after 3 months in Amphibia be like:
This is my second time participating in Flash Fiction Friday, and the second time FFF has cured my writer’s block. Thank you @flashfictionfridayofficial!
DISCLAIMER:I kind of failed this Flash Fiction Friday, because this isn’t complete at all, I just ran out of time and decided to post what I had so far anyway. I really like this concept, so I’ll definitely continue working on it over the next few days. And if it turns out okay, I’ll post the whole thing when it’s done.
The Hand that Feeds (Don’t Bite)
- Wordcount: 230
- Content warnings: entomophobia, implied kidnapping
The ants and I had a lot in common. We were tiny, fragile things, all gangly limbs and dark, beady eyes set in heads too big for our bodies. He liked us like that: small and unassuming.
He kept us contained, as deadly things should be, trapped inside four walls, watchful eyes following our every move. I watched the ants, flat on my stomach to be on their level; he watched me, lingering in the shadows like a ghost.
He was very careful with the ants, not at all like he was with me. He revered them, I could tell; feared them too. Pogonomyrmex maricopa were one of the most venomous insects in the world, he’d explained to me in the early days, a couple hundred stings enough to kill a grown man. There were close to twenty thousand of them in the basement with me, nothing but thin panels of glass between their venom and my skin.
I did not fear them, though. Most days I felt more bug than human, and I often dreamed of the ants taking me in as one of their own. I was convinced that, given the chance, they would take his life and spare mine.
As I did not fear the ants, he did not fear me. We were both foolish for that. A word to the wise: always fear deadly things.