He really never knew what to make of it. All his life they just
came to him, in some obscene parody of the Hajj, to pray at the
altar of his presence. All the small things of the Earth flocked
to the Mecca of Jay, and he never found out why.
As a boy, in the verdant fields of his home, he noticed that he
never got the bites the other kids scratched. Not once did a wasp
or bee teach him the lessons all children learn. Even the
black flies stayed from his eyes, swarming a respectful distance
away.
Not long after, the first of the visitors arrived. Bizarre insects
from parts long removed, battered and withered from fantastic
journeys across impossible distances appeared before him. Many were the last of their kind, destroyed by the hand of man. They followed him like disciples. Many died, but never at his hand. They simply withered away, satisfied they finally arrived in the presence of their confused messiah.
Jay never spoke of this to anyone. He wasn't ashamed, but rather felt that he should not meddle in affairs beyond his understanding. This secret pilgrimage of the tiny made him feel strangely important, but also sad in his heart of hearts.
What do they want? What do they expect? When a million tiny lives flare out each day, do they think they come to me? Am I their God?
For what ever reason, a mystery to all but them, it continues to this day: Bugs go to JayBonci. |
