Bubamara

He was born from a ladybug’s love moans, who at the time was having her way with a naive, adolescent catfish. The moans, rising from the thin lips of the ladybug, carried him over the pond, dropping him in a shallow pool that was more mud than water. There he crusted over, and being mistaken for a statue was carried off by a fisherman who placed him in his backyard by a tiny pond he had made not too long ago.

Grga sat there by the pond looking at the still water that was occupied by a few fish, amongst them his father who had been caught the same day he was carried off. Grga acknowledged his father, who didn’t want anything to do with him. His father felt that he was not ready to take on such great responsibility, and thus ignored him. Grga, who had named himself, wasn’t hurt by this, rather he said, “It’s ironic that a fish without legs could create, granted with help, a creature with wings. Father, I am proud of you.” His father didn’t say a word, though the water level in the pond slightly rose, as tears escaped from his father’s eyes, who was proud of him, too.

Ten years passed in a single pose. Grga grew to love Sundays, the parties thrown by the fisherman were wonderful. The music, like the instruments, wonderfully exotic; the people, like the music, wonderfully buoyant. There Grga watched his father grow old, to eventually be consumed by the fisherman and his family on a sunny Sunday afternoon, but not before he was fried on the barbecue. Having seen this, Grga thought how wonderfully absurd life was. Absurd that his best friend the barbecue, who shared the backyard with him all these years, could do such a thing. His father’s bones, which were left for the cats, spoke to Grga before they were carried off, saying, “Don’t fall for the bait son. Don’t let yourself be caught. Mud-baths are for the complacent. You’re a fool for sticking by me, you should fly.”

Grga wasn’t angry with his friend, he knew his friend was doing what he was made to do. He also knew that he wasn’t made to be a statue, and thus, excusing himself, shook off the mud and flew off into the world. His first stop was the place of his birth. There he met his mother, who he found loved everyone equally, not leaving room for prejudice even for her children. She embraced him and said, “You’ve grown into a fine figure. Fly as close to the sun as you like. All the stories are lies, all of them.” And with that she let herself slip away amongst the grass, looking to share her love with whoever passes by. Grga wanted nothing more than to give her his wings, so that she may share her love with more of the world, so she may fly much further than her wings could ever carry her.

Losing sight of his mother, Grga took flight. As he flew the wind ran her fingers through his hair and he fell in love with her, on his way to Spain they made love. Their passion was unrivaled even by the gods, who out of jealousy made the wind forget her love for him, and him, his love for her. Thus they departed without a word, as Grga landed in southern Spain. He flew to Spain to find a creature who claimed to see reality, to see that which hides behind the mask of matter. He hoped this creature would give him an answer, a purpose.

He found the rock buried under a pile of his brethren, and there, without hesitation, asked him what he was meant to do, what his purpose in life was. The rock replied, “You’re a mistake. A flaw in the grand design, hindering the ultimate purpose of everything. Born of your mother’s moans, sacrilege sounds of agony to the ears of truth. Your very presence pains me, your gaze alters me, destroying my true nature, reconstructing me in a form that embarrasses me, that nauseates me to no end. Be gone foul creature.” The rock closing his eyes, shuttered with agony.

Grga took flight. He was ecstatic. The freedom he felt then was indescribable. He had no purpose, nothing he was meant to be doing, he loved every moment of freedom that passed under his wings. At one of those moments the sun caught his gaze. Moving his wings, he flew upwards heading right for it. He thought, “So it is that without fear I will fly into the heart of the sun. I will tear out its intestines and feed them to Pluto, Pluto, who hungers for its affection. I will recreate and reconstruct truth, true reality will be twisted and deformed under my fingertips, such is my freedom.” With that he dove into the sun, a thing nothing more than a cage. There he was put on display, to be looked at by children who point and smile, wounding him without end.

-Jakob Lint