© Copyright Faith McCord 2011
Story and artwork belongs to Faith McCord who is the author and artist holding the copyright. This is not a public domain work. Worldwide rights.
BEETLE (a short story)
by Faith McCord
Copyright Faith McCord 2011
Published at Smashwords
Glossy black in the matt darkness, a stripe of shine and a waggle of antlers, the beetle makes his way across a bumpy fearful terrain.
Fearful because the night brings many enemies. Paws that pounce, claws that strike, open mouths that bite with razor sharp teeth. The floor of the ancient woodland, vaguely lit from an even older moon, is abundant with nocturnal life - and is quite a scary place to be.
Little Stag beetle runs as if he has a hundred legs instead of six; runs with a sense of purpose because he has a destination in his sights. The damp earthy smell of the woodpile so far away beckons him.
The journey is far and treacherous.
He runs so fast with all his being.
As if a hundred legs instead of six.
Over hillocks of dried hardened leaves, twigs, grass, moss, earth and such; slower, more carefully through the sticky mud that threatens to catch him. He must choose his path carefully for this is a dangerous place: certainly he would not be the first beetle ever to have been drowned in the mud or snapped up suddenly in the jaws of death!
Larger black things fly and swoop above him; all manner of - larger still - creatures call and signal to one another in the hustle and bustle of the trees and bushes.
The hunters. The hunted.
The way is oh so far and treacherous but the smell of the woodpile beckons.
The thought of the woodpile spurs him on.
Cold night. Dark night. Autumn night. Everyone is hungry.
With expertise he navigates around a clump of moss; then under, around and through a fallen branch. His tiny heart beats wildly. His antennae searching. All his senses acute to the dangers of the night. But his strong sense of purpose carries him on.
And on.
A narrow bridge, a stick still green and smelling fresh from the tree, enables his tricky passage over an expanse of puddle. The rain has been torrential these past days. A beetle is lucky to be alive and not drowned in such conditions.
Once over the lake and back on dry(ish) land, the beetle resumes his journey across the jagged earthen ground. It is surely hard-going.
His all consuming sense of purpose leading him on.
And on.
Something rushes through the dried up leaves and is almost upon him - but he escapes with thumping heart by making an oblique turn in the other direction.
A thousand legs!
Then something else with wings swooping low screeches and snaps at his ankles, however he's saved by a clump of bush which he runs under...
And on.
Carrying on as if the wind is lifting him, like he could be flying. Purpose strong. Heart beating wildly. The smell of the woodpile sweet and beckoning.
And on until his journey ends where it should.
If beetles could smile this little Stag beetle would be smiling with joy. Instead he bows his antlers in gratitude.
Like an important monument standing tall and proud, the woodpile in its enormity stands before him. Mossy, damp, earthen fragrance permeates the night air. A beetle so tiny in comparison to all of this.
Near by: Movement. A gentle tapping of legs. The sense of a female, a mate.
The beetle, glossy black against the matt darkness of the night, moves into the woodpile.
It's good to be Home.
THE END
Thank you to all my little creatures for the inspiration. My gratitude to the late Jean Henri Fabre for his endearing stories about the insect world.
Dear reader, this is my first proper e-book. I would appreciate you leaving a review of this short story. Albeit small like a beetle, I hope you enjoyed it.
INTERESTING LINKS
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean_Henri_Fabre