As pale blisters, they rose in the dank gloom, a festering of bleached insects. So much had they eaten, so rapid was their greed, that they sank themselves into a sleepy-hollow. Even in their creeping scurry no ground could be seen, so thickly layered were they. To be an insect at the bottom or any middle point would be to live in a world with only the beating of exoskeleton oars.
Shields of metallic green ran hither and thither, sparky and fast. It was as if they grooved to pop music, the kind that enlivens summer days. To my inner eye the kitchen vinyl became a wide parchment awaiting a composer’s pen. To this scene the beatles were the notes, constantly creating a new melody.
The doctor peered gravely at Mr Insect; the toxins in his tiny body were causing significant harm.
A beetle made its way over Ned's shoe as if it had been to salsa classes and was still dreaming of the beat.
Three pairs of feet made their way over the leaf, the shiny exoskeleton reflecting the sunny rays.
The insect visited the larder nature had so kindly provided, collecting aphids with diligent joy.
The insect walked lightly over the soil making neither footprint nor sound; yet simply heading home with the food she had found.
The insect climbed the grass with serene ease; it was every happy summer memory of long ago lazy days on summer grass.
Upon the insect armour, in the growing light of dawn, was a perfect sphere of water that looked for all the world like our Earth.
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