In the Land of Man

The mosquito flew about in the darkness of the room, cold and afraid. And just then, when the little mosquito had rested on a lower surface to rest its tired wings, light illuminated the area, which turned out to be a bathroom, and he had been lounging on the toilet.

 

A tall man wearing a gray pair of baggy pants and a green T-shirt walked in, and lifting up the seat, sent the poor mosquito flying from his perch. His wings were forced into ignition once more, as a bright yellow stream of liquid began erupting from a strange instrument that he couldn't quite make out, as the golden waterfall made its way down into the dark and murky denizens of the toilet bowl.

 

The man held the instrument with one hand, the other scratching his eye and ruffling his hair, one routine after another, paying no attention to where the stream was being aimed at, and consequently, the mosquito found himself dodging the torrential downpour of the pungent mixture.

 

His wings beat furiously, his frail body dashing to and fro, as the liquid kept coming down in a booming, angelic rushing kind of noise, and splashing against the seat's rim.

 

The mosquito could take the charade no longer. Continuing to maneuver the path between life and his certain death should the Rain of the Gods strike him down from above, the mosquito and all 365 of his beautiful, gleaming eyes spotted the area from which the urine was gushing forth from: a small hole at the tip of the man's instrument.

 

There were so many questions he wanted to know, such as what was the instrument called, or used for. But there was no time for that. He beat his wings harder than ever before, and as he flew higher and higher, the sound of the waterfall threatening to cause his mind to implode, the mosquito took one deep breath and plunged into the stream.

 

It took all his might not to be carried down along with the downpour, but that was not enough to crush this mosquito's willpower!

 

The liquid was hot, and boiled against his hard exoskeleton, his wings wanting to give way, beckoning to dissolve in the shower of torment.

 

The stream became more powerful as he pushed up closer to the hole, and then, he made it.

 

With all six of his limbs, he pushed himself inside the musty cave, where he found the stream had ceased, and had now been replaced by a series of weird movements, from what the mosquito could have only guessed was the man.

 

Having been in the hole for no longer than three seconds, the mosquito's trials had been rewarded by a slap here and there, as the man swatted his instrument around incessantly, but the mosquito didn't go anywhere.

 

The man continued to jerk around, like a man on fire; was he that unhappy, the mosquito thought?

 

The movements stopped suddenly, and to his horror, the mosquito was filled with the terrible noise of another great waterfall, hearing it come closer and closer; impact was imminent.

 

He held on tightly to the moist soft walls of the interior, the pungent odours of the habitat driving his sense wild and out of focus...

 

...and then all turned dark in the Land of Man.

Author's Note

Random idea. There might have been a time when I considered continuing this, but unfortunately nothing I think up ever finds a conclusion. This was from back when I used to love typing using a Courier font to mimic a typewriter. Helped with productivity and all.

Written 11 April 2010.