fireflies

Overcast conditions have robbed me of my starry night sky. Instead, every field is full of fireflies. The stars have come down to visit me tonight.

Down by the river a frog chirps. The night is warm and humid. I breathe deeply and inhale the summer scent.

A constellation of fireflies orbits my body. Their lights flash blue-white in a private zodiac of warning.

The sky to the east pulses as lightning splits the air into fractions. The storm upriver, too far away to hear.

A firefly has settled on my thigh. Its tiny bulb flashes up at me. Another one lands on my cheek. I brush it away.

The bug hovers in front of my face, winks twice and flies straight into my mouth. I choke and swallow.

The firefly lodges in my stomach. Within seconds, I can feel luminescence seep like a sickness out of my pores. I fall on my knees.

I consider using the light to send a distress signal. But there is no one to receive it. I collapse and find myself lying on my back on the grass, my mouth opening and closing.

I look up into the darkness and see glowing streaks. The fireflies trace blurred pathways high above me.

They flicker off and on like ideas, neurons in a bad brain.

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