“Hello, lightning bug.”
Writing for the fun of it July 18th, 2008
I walked downstairs, and saw a lightning bug hovering outside the basement window. It’s yellow-green pulse was like a sweet greeting, and I smiled to myself. Lightning bugs on a summer evening are fun like that. Fresh. New. A floating ball of luminescent opportunity. Did you see it? Would you see it again? Where would it be next? Where will I be next?
“Hello lightning bug.”
As I walked towards the window, it flashed me again. It was stationary. Odd. Upon closer inspection, I noticed the bug outside was larger. It was a big, brown spider dangling in front of my window, holding a lightning bug. Neither moved, nor did I, as my hopefulness slid off my face and took my smile with it. The lightning bug flashed again, and I couldn’t tell if its glow was dimmer the second time, or if it only seemed that way. We stared at each other for a good few seconds.
My lips tightened and curled into a smirk. In an quick instant, I felt every emotion for a doomed insect — Regret. Pain. Retaliation. Remorse. Inevitability. Acceptance. I finally settled on irony. Sometimes, even hopelessness glows.
“Goodbye lightning bug.”
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