Writing

on winding overgrown pathways, a lone bug lie dead - its shell cracked, its cloak tattered, black blood stains on the moss and stone below. Its cracked shell showing what ended its life - a circular hole fit perfectly for a needle.

the foe that killed it is long gone, she is swift to return to scouting. The world around sings. Maskflies land, soar, and chatter - squits murmur and peep, vagabonds roll past as they make their rounds. and yet, our dead bug remains.

And then it is silent.

a mosscreep approaches. curiously, joyously, it pokes our bug, and chirps. another appears, then another, then another - a whole herd has arrived. The family inspects our bug, turning them over, smelling them, poking them, until it seems the herd has satisfied their questions. But then suddenly, a mosscreep turns back - latching onto and pulling our bug down the path.

this lone mosscreep wriggles and pushes until our bug ends up bouncing onto it's back - and the mosscreep carries on.

this little bug takes our bug through the thick vegetation, up hills, down slopes, through valleys, past pools of acid, to a forgotten shrine. a statue of their god sits forth. with a shake of its plumage, the mosscreep sheds our bug, and they fall before the slug-shaped stone. With a final chirp, the mosscreep leaves.

the acid below turns. as the mosscreep disappears, the bubbling slows. the crash of waves echoes as a creature tosses and turns as it awakens. it hesitates a moment, the silence ticking away as the beast below the surface takes in what its old eyes see.

finally, the beast breaches the acid. The moss's god emerges, and tilts its rubbery head at our bug. for a giant slug, it moves quickly, snatching our bug in a single dive - dragging it below.

born of god and void,
left dead amongst the silt and leaves,
it was care that brought you to me,
to be reborn by dream and root rejoined.

... i will name you Fern.

our bug awakes, shaking herself. she leans over the water below - the fatal hole didn't heal, but the rest of her did. besides her, her worn nail, polished by acid, shimmering silver under the glow of the plants above. Fern picks up her nail, and watches a maskfly take flight.

a mind to think, a will to bear, a voice to sing.