Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh!

I had the windows open this morning, while I wrote.  And while in a daze, wondering whether to throw in a few fifty-buck words just to piss off Hemingway, I became aware of a buzzing.

A buzzing, a rustling, a frantic hum, coming from behind the curtains where they were bunched up.  And when I went to have a look, it was an insect, bouncing around behind there.  Frantic with captivity, wings flickering and building up to an aggressive whine if it didn’t find the exit bloody quick.

A fly.  A fly!  OH GOD A FLY!  I ran and grabbed household antibacterial spray, found fly spray in the cupboard under the sink, ran back and MACED THAT FUCKER.

Then I got a bit of a closer look, once I’d calmed down, and it was all still and quiet and deaded.

Oh, but it wasn’t a fly.  It was a beetle.  A harmless beetle, just faintly wobbling one feeler as he wobbled off this mortal coil.  Damn it.  I’d jumped to conclusions, freaked out a bit, gone into battle: and now one poor beetle had paid the price.  He’d probably come in on a bike or a jacket earlier in the day.  He didn’t mean no harm, honestly guv!

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And now, hours later, I still feel just crummy about it.  Oh, poor Mr Beetle, I feel absolutely awufl.  I’m so sorry.

 

Image – Fowler, W. W. (William Weekes), 1849-1923; Donisthorpe, Horace St. John Kelly, 1870, public domain.

 

 

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