Skitter Skitter Bang bang

Image: Pixabay

They were speaking, in different languages.

They were mumbling, murmuring, rumbling.

I merely skittered around on the floor, trying to avoid the thunder of tree trunks falling everywhere, to the pulse of ambient sound. Every so often someone would scream, and I would giggle, and flutter a little, scatter some hairs – clear some floor space. The thunder of legs would increase for a brief time, and I would dart and weave as five branched hands come down with rolled newspapers, plates, even fruits.

Until I skitter to a person’s pant leg, and hide between the sock and pant hem.

Wait until they give up, and I’m warmed again by the cotton and skin.

Then I run up the leg, digging my hairs in, and enjoy the entire process all over again.

In all my days as a cockroach, I’ve never been caught in my fun.

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