Mothgut

I put the dictionary back on my desk. It was the first thing that had come to hand that was big enough and that I didn't mind splattering bug guts all over. I sat on my bed and watched. Naked, I felt a chill from the draught, so I pulled the window to. I would probably have to open it again later.

'I want it to be known,' I said to the quivering and pathetically fluttering remains of the moth on my bedroom floor, 'that it is death to come in here. I want you buggers to fear that light.'

I sighed. 'I want young moths to gather outside and tell stories of this place. I want them to whisper about the monster that lives within, swatting and crushing and killing. I want you all to know that if you come in here, you will die. Do you understand me?'

'I can't help you,' the moth said. 'Moths can't talk.' And then it died.

I went to the light and turned it off. I could tidy the mess tomorrow; one dead moth wasn't going to disrupt my sleep any. It was the live ones that irritated me.

I went to sleep listening to the sound of them tapping at my window.