School speech that was updated into a short story.

A great story is one which can capture your imagination, it does not have to have heroes, it does not have to have impossible creatures, vast armies or men with an unimaginable power, it just has to relate with the people who choose to read it. In today's world, almost any great story, will eventually be turned into a mediocre film, a humiliation, I am sure, it is hard for the original story-teller to swallow.

I have therefore decided to tell a story that will never face the humiliation of a bad film translation. This is a story that will not leave you gasping for breath, and all the jokes will not be funny, but, it will fill the basic requirements of a story I am supposed to write.

So, without further a due, I give you the story of the last day in the life of a completely insignificant moth named Bob.

Bob woke up with the equivalent of a moth hangover, he had partied hard the night before and could feel the headache and singed antennae that come from spending hours banging into various, blinding light bulbs. He had found a particularly hot, blinding one which was also a pleasing green colour, into which he had bumped into with ecstasy right up to the moment at which, exhausted, he fell to the cold, hard floor.

Bob slowly opened his wings, shading his compound eyes from the terrifyingly bright and entirely inappropriate bright, sunny, happy day, and flew out of what ever building he had ended up passing out in. He started looking for somewhere to hang for the couple of hours of recuperation he would need in order to get back to mindlessly banging into dangerous and beautiful bright objects. Bob's search ended quickly, he found a promising plant and started sunning himself. He relaxed his body to the point that humans can only reach after sitting through a triple math's period or lobotomy. He sprawled out, limbs limp and wings rustling in the wind, with nothing better to do he watched the grass grow and wondered if there might be a secret society of shape shifting green lizards which had landed on the Earth thousands of years previously and had infiltrated the highest rings of human society, intent on causing human misery and repression, a society which had started wars, invented the mosquito and made sure the light was always red. Unlike David Icke, he immediately dismissed this idea.

Although Bob enjoyed this kind of mindless tedium (having one of the smallest brains the world has ever seen he could be occupied by many things). The problem was that, in this state of peace and tranquillity only achievable by humans after years of dedication or minutes of expensive drugs, a bunch of colourful, flowery, and almost definitely gay butterflies landed on the same bush. Although they were of a completely different species, Bob was afraid and not wanting to be associated with that kind of insect, he flew off in search of another sanctuary.

To his amazement he found a sparkling white place with smooth slippery sides that appealed to him in the way that crossing a crocodile infested river can seem like a really great idea to herds of wildebeest, he settled down, closed his eyes and was washed down the sink by the inconsiderate person who decided to brush his teeth at that very moment.

We can only speculate what Bob thought of in his terminal moments, but I have narrowed it down to 3 different possibilities:
A He could have pondered the ultimate futility of resisting the twists of fate, thought that he had had a pretty fulfilling life and that he was content to die at that moment.
B Some kind of moth equivalent for the F word or other appropriate expletive.
C I wish gay butterflies weren't so intimidating.

Dedicated to all the moths who have ended up down my sink.

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