There was a mutant fly in the bathroom yesterday. A no-worries, mostly-fly as it buzzed past my nose. But then it landed on the windowsill and turned into a Gollum of flies. A fast-moving, sideways-sidling dark hornet.
Fine, have the bathroom. I left.
I shouldn't have worried this morning: it was dead, ugly as before and sharp, shimmering with ants. What did they do to it? Bite? Feed on it? Suck it dry? Would Gollum slowly disappear? Dismantled into ant-sized portions and stored?
By noon, disaster: they had tipped the mutant into the bathtub. By nightfall, a rescue squad had been dispatched. They had it and had started the climb up the steep enamel.
With the manuscript, it's worse: I have it, but alive and fighting; and there's still this mountain to climb.
Fine, have the bathroom. I left.
I shouldn't have worried this morning: it was dead, ugly as before and sharp, shimmering with ants. What did they do to it? Bite? Feed on it? Suck it dry? Would Gollum slowly disappear? Dismantled into ant-sized portions and stored?
By noon, disaster: they had tipped the mutant into the bathtub. By nightfall, a rescue squad had been dispatched. They had it and had started the climb up the steep enamel.
With the manuscript, it's worse: I have it, but alive and fighting; and there's still this mountain to climb.
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