It was an unseasonably warm day, though the trees had not yet blossomed. I landed on a blade of grass. In the sunshine it glinted. It bowed down slightly under my weight.
Suddenly a human hand descended from the sky and blocked my way; I turned to run but found myself running up onto the warm pink skin of a finger. It lifted me into the air and brought me up to its horrible face. It roared from its gaping maw, and its words made me tremble with fear.
Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home,
Your house is on fire, your children are gone.
For a second, I was paralysed. The shock left me in cold disbelief. It couldn't be; no, God, let it not be so. Then adrenaline kicked in; I opened out my wings and flew away, faster than I have ever flown before.
When I reached home, the scene was devastating. My beautiful house was razed to the ground, and oh, my children, where were they? Gone, all gone. My beautiful larvae, all gone.
Then I heard a faint scratching from under a frying pan. I scurried over and lifted it up; it was Anne, the smallest one, feelers slightly singed, but alive. I clutched her to my breast and together we wept, quietly, in the burnt shell of our old home.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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